Three Wheels: The Year of Shadows
by Requiem17
Summary: Was he born Emrys, or is it a title to be earned? [Post S4, Canon Divergence, Eventual Reveal, Part 2/3]
1. The Skeleton's Cupboard

_Hello again, my lovelies.  
_

 _I adore Merlin with so many fibers of my being, but the fifth series broke my heart. It was beautiful, but it left me wanting. I still want magic free in Camelot where Arthur is alive to see it, I still want the destiny Aithusa and Kilgharrah must have seen, and I still want Merlin to finally be free of all of his secrets. Sure, these are spoilers for the ultimate ending, but if you've already gone through A Year for Secrets with me then you know how much there still is to tell._

 _I want you to know how much it means to me that you're still here, and that you're still dreaming with me. After all, "a dream you dream alone is only a dream, but a dream you dream together is reality." And so it is with an unmatched excitement and a bone-deep thankfulness that I finally bid you all a welcome back.  
_

 _Albion's missed you._

* * *

 **The Skeleton's Cupboard  
** _The Nones of September_

 _Merlin whirled, followed the dragon's line of sight, and his world stuttered to a halt._

 _In pure disbelief he saw the knight hidden in the shadows of the trees, dressed in his usual chainmail but missing the telltale Camelotian red cloak. His brown hair stuck to the sweat on his cheeks and his eyes were wide with wordless shock._

 _Merlin felt his stomach slide into his throat, and his heart seized as if someone had reached out and grasped it in a merciless fist._

" _Gwaine."_

The dragon's long body stretched taut as it commanded the clearing. Its muscles rippled beneath its golden scales, and fire burned at the threshold of its fangs. This was the beast that had murdered knight and villager alike during its rampage, and now the full force of its ferocity was focused on him.

This was a creature out of legend, out of storybooks, and Gwaine was still lost somewhere between an out of body experience and the fight of his life. His gaze was locked with the snake-like, unblinking glare of the beast before him, held back by an invisible thread.

An invisible thread, and the echo of the strange words that had left the mouth of his friend—his friend, _Merlin._ Somehow this fact kept pulling away, only to gouge him deeper when it struck again.

"Gwaine," Merlin repeated, shifting slowly and inching his body between the dragon and the knight. Gwaine's gaze only flickered from the dragon, because that was the threat, despite whatever smaller dragon was peering at him from behind Merlin's legs. "Gwaine, he's not going to hurt you, but you need to take your hand off your sword."

All of his fighter instincts told him not to, and maybe he flinched to grip the pommel tighter, because a dark and menacing growl erupted from the dragon's throat not a moment later.

And while he may have been able to put up some sort of fight if he'd still had the element of surprise, there was no way out of this situation without being roasted alive—not if he drew his sword, at least. His breaths were shallow, and his palms felt clammy, and he slid his gaze to Merlin and begged him for proof that this was the right choice.

Merlin looked just as pale and shaky as he felt, but the man gave a slow nod, and Gwaine uncurled his fingers from the metal through sheer force of will.

Gradually Merlin said, "Kilgharrah, you need to take Aithusa, and you need to go."

After Merlin said the words, he turned and faced the dragon. It left Gwaine staring at his back, at his shoulders set straight and not humbly hunched, and a small piece of Gwaine's mind recognized this man as the shadow he had glimpsed in unanticipated moments scattered through the years.

"You trust this knight?" The dragon growled. "More than your fate now lies at his feet. The fate of my kind—"

Strange words left Merlin's mouth, and the dragon snarled but swallowed the flames. The reaction was so instant that Gwaine's mind stuttered _Was that magic?_ But Merlin never waved his arms about, nor did anything alike any other sorcerer Gwaine had seen, and so he calmed and realized, _No—it's just some other language._

The dragon stalked slowly backwards until it hovered over the small dragon. It reached out a leg to grab it. "I'll be waiting for your call," it said warningly to Merlin, then reared over them all. "And as you know, I have already done my fair share of waiting."

It flew away with great flaps of its wings, and Gwaine stared after it. It was heading south.

When his attention snapped back to Merlin, the other man was already staring at him with tortured blue eyes. His dark hair was in disarray, his clothes hung more lank than usual on his bedraggled frame, and dark bags darkened the hollows over his cheekbones.

Strangely out of place was the physician's herb bag still hanging by Merlin's hip, empty, and likely with no intentions of being filled. The thought snapped his restraint, and Gwaine began to laugh hollowly. "You've got your satchel."

Merlin's brow furrowed in confusion, but Gwaine clearly recalled the words that had accidentally slipped from Merlin's mouth months ago. "Picking herbs never stopped being your cover-up story, did it?"

"I do pick herbs most of the time," Merlin murmured.

Gwaine looked down at his boots and frowned, and after a small shake of his head picked his way forward into the clearing. This was a truth he would never have predicted, or even guessed in jest. It was so far off from his understanding of someone he considered his first mate, that he wondered if they had ever truly been friends. Had this always been a one-sided friendship?

When he stood directly before Merlin, and had the closeness to do it, he studied the man with the full force of his attention. In that sliver of time he opened himself to any possibility, and what he gained in that moment would come unbidden to his mind for years to come.

There, in Merlin's soul, hidden behind the wariness and below the careful control, was a desperation and a fear. That sight, and the unignorable history between them, moved his hands to his belt to unbuckle his sword and scabbard. They fell with a dull clunk onto the ground. "Let's talk," he said.

Merlin nodded nervously. He seemed marginally less wary now that Gwaine hadn't run screaming treason. "You'd think I would have a speech prepared but…." Merlin trailed off.

The silence stretched on, and Gwaine's eyes went from Merlin's tattered tunic, to his boots, then to the treeline and to the sky. He blinked and grimaced, "So, you're friends with dragons."

Merlin lifted a single shoulder, then let it drop heavily.

"I thought they were all dead. Knights are still telling stories of when Arthur killed that last gold one." _Oh, well, that made a little more sense now at least._ "Actually, It's way more reasonable that you and Princess just nicely asked it to leave." He tried to smile at his forced joke, but Merlin's face just tightened.

"Arthur doesn't know."

"Doesn't know what?" Gwaine asked faintly, because surely he wasn't going to have to choose between the man he'd sworn his life to, and the man who had convinced him that this noble was worth that.

"About anything. He doesn't know the dragons are alive, and he doesn't know about me—"

Gwaine watched Merlin as he broke off and sucked in a breath. The servant ran a hand through his messy hair and his face was full of anguish.

If this had been any other person this conversation would already be over, but that _was_ his friend over there barely able to string a sentence together for nerves, and his abandoned sword belied the truth—Gwaine had never planned to harm him, no matter what came out of Merlin's mouth. "He doesn't know I was noble, so no surprise there."

This time, even though the smile was still strained on his face, and he had never felt so at a loss of what precisely he was to do, when he saw the tiniest flicker of hope in Merlin's eyes he knew he had done the right thing; nevermind if that thing went against whatever knight's code he'd sworn to.

Not like he'd ever cared much for the rules, anyway.

* * *

The conversation had continued in bursts, but Merlin had seemed too dazed to answer anything properly, not that Gwaine had any idea of what a reasonable line of questioning was for when you found out your friend was also chummy with flying beasts of fire and death.

Though he felt a little cowardly, he was happy to look up at the sun and remark on the time. Arthur had called a Round Table meeting that evening, which always involved an implicit invitation to Merlin, and they had better get back before they were noticeably late.

When they were a little further along on the path, and they could more easily avoid each other's gazes, Gwaine said, "So you're not worried they're, like, going to eat you one day when they're feeling peckish?"

Merlin frowned. "They're not going to eat me," he said as if the notion were absurd. Then he tacked on while muttering under his breath, "Or anyone in Camelot. I told Kilgharrah not to."

"Well they are dragons, and you're, well...I'm just saying if I were _really_ hungry I may eat you."

"Remind me to get you an apple," Merlin said sourly. And because that was the first inkling of Merlin's usual attitude that he'd seen yet, Gwaine smiled so broad that his eyes watered. Yeah, this was all going to work out. Maybe not today, but this was proof that they had been mates, and they still would be.

Merlin rubbed at his nose a bit awkwardly and then said, "If I tell them not to, then they can't."

"What are you, King of the Dragons?" Gwaine said in slight disbelief, but really, nothing should be surprising him at this point.

Merlin winced and waved off the question. Humble and secretive to a fault, that one. "I'm just saying; they have to do what I say. I trust them and they trust me, so I rarely have to _make_ them do anything but—"

"But you made that gold one not roast me," Gwaine muttered. "Remind me that I owe you a pint for that." They exited the forest for the road, and it curled ahead of them for the front gates of Camelot. There were many peasants on the path, heading home to their nearby villages after a day of trading within the city's walls, and Gwaine dropped his voice to avoid being overheard. "So, tell me how all that happened."

Merlin looked confused. "What do you mean?"

Gwaine waved a hand. "I'm guessing you didn't wake up one night and suddenly decide you were going to chat up some dragons."

Merlin laughed, a tad manically. "It sort of went exactly like that."

When no further cryptic response came, Gwaine asked, "Why, then? It seems like a strange hobby to pick up."

Merlin had an answer for this one, and his voice was strong. "They are wise and ancient creatures, and they understand this world in ways we cannot fathom. Kilgharrah burned Agravaine's men and helped us to escape; if it were not for him, Arthur could have died. His advice and strength are invaluable to me, and for the future of Albion."

Well, fie. "Which one was that...Kill-Gara?"

"The gold one. Aithusa is the small one. She's young, slightly over a year now."

The math snapped quickly into place. "She's the one Borden was after? You told Arthur that the egg was destroyed when the tomb collapsed." Gwaine narrowed his eyes, "We all fell asleep in our bowls. You drugged us didn't you?"

"No," Merlin panicked. "Borden did, and I didn't notice until—" he broke off when he heard Gwaine chuckle.

Wistfully, Gwaine said, "I'm finally going to hear all of your stories. You won't be able to say 'Later. One day, Gwaine, I'll tell you.'"

"I—"

"You always said that, mate." Merlin looked down, obviously feeling chastised and guilt-ridden, and Gwaine bumped him with his shoulder. "Though I suppose you had a good reason."

They entered the front gates with a nod to the guards, and they paused in the plaza when the rush of sound and the reminder of their normal duties pressed down on them. Gwaine adjusted his sword belt and squinted at the sun's height in the sky.

"Meeting's not for a bit," he said finally. "I skived off my duties to, uh, catch up with you. I've got to go check in."

Merlin nodded silently, and he watched queasily as Gwaine strode quickly away after a wave. Three times Merlin told himself Gwaine was not going off to tell the others, and even then he felt like he would lose his meager lunch when he lost sight of the knight in the crowd. Gwaine was honest. Gwaine would not have tricked him for information. Gwaine was his friend.

He turned for the path that led to the main castle, walking past the lines of pubs and eateries, skirting through Dragonsbane Square, and then up onto the widely paved road through the Upper Town. He stopped in the courtyard of the castle, and looked up at the grand stairwell. He should probably at least try and pretend to do his duties as a manservant, even if Arthur believed he was sick and in need of rest, but the idea of forcing any semblance of normalcy right now seemed impossible.

More importantly, he had to warn Gaius. _Tell, not warn._ Because Gwaine was going to keep the secret.

Merlin shook his head and turned from the main entrance, slipping into the shadow of the large battlements and onto the servant's staircase in the East Tower. He had expected to find Gaius still within the physician's chambers, but the elder man had been called away. Merlin looked blankly about the room, wondering if he should go in search of his guardian or wait it out here.

The itch in his side decided for him, and he replaced the empty satchel on the wall before inching up his tunic. The skin around the three tight x's Gaius had stitched over the wound on his hip had reddened, and the edges had swollen. The apple vinegar was still on the workshop table from the other night, and Merlin grabbed a new rag to douse in the acid. The smell and the sting that followed made his nose wrinkle.

He was just contemplating unwrapping his finger when Gaius returned, and the older man seemed to regain a year of his life when his eyes landed on his young charge. Unfortunately, that peace would likely not last for long.

"Gaius, something has happened, and you should probably sit down."

The physician jerked to a halt and furrowed his brows. Carefully, while his face creased with caution, he made his way to the center table and lowered himself onto the bench. "What do you have to tell me, my boy?"

Merlin took a deep breath. No other way to do this, but quick. "Gwaine saw me talking to Kilgharrah."

Gaius paled, and his hands fluttered to grip the table. Words escaped him, and he trembled.

"Don't panic," Merlin said, "Or I'll panic."

Breathlessly Gaius forced out, "What then? Has he gone to tell the King? How much does he know?"

"He only knows about the dragons, but he isn't going to tell anyone."

Gaius was concerned, and he caught on to the thinned timbre in Merlin's voice. "You don't sound convinced."

Merlin clenched his fists and focused on mentally righting himself. "I trust Gwaine. He won't tell."

A moment passed where Gaius studied Merlin's expression for any minor hesitation, but when he found none so terrible he covered his face with his hands and struggled to think past the knee-jerk fear. Eventually he pressed his palms onto the table and fixed a glare at his charge. "You can't tell him of your magic."

Merlin frowned. "Why not? Lancelot knew."

Unnecessarily vicious, Gaius responded, "He spends half his nights drunk, and who knows what he might let slip."

"You're exaggerating," Merlin rebuked, the beginnings of a scowl on his face, "and I'm more likely to make a mistake while drinking than Gwaine is. I only know _his_ secret because he willingly told me."

"Merlin," Gaius fought back, voice strained. "I would have taken your secret to my grave, but there are ways to hurt a person until they cannot resist. Alator used such a method on me."

"Yes," Merlin muttered, "but your idea of protecting magic-users is telling them to run."

Gaius froze, and the room went utterly silent. Shock, and then deep hurt writ itself across the elder man's features.

In a rush Merlin said, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it." He bent to grip Gaius' wrist tightly. "I'm just tired."

There was a knock on their door, and Merlin tossed the rag of apple vinegar onto the worktable and released Gaius just as the door opened to reveal Percival bent over in the doorway. The knight's gaze swept over them both, but he kept his thoughts to himself. "Arthur's ready for the Round Table."

He wondered if he looked odd just standing in the center of the room. "We're coming," Merlin said.

Percival hovered for a moment longer, then seemed to understand they needed a moment alone and closed the door. His heavy footfalls faded down the small corridor.

"He's going to find out eventually," Merlin said, "and then he'll just be hurt."

Mutedly Gaius responded, "I promised your mother I'd take care of you, and we can't promise that when more people know."

Merlin sighed, and he offered a hand to his guardian to help him to his feet. After a beat of silence, Gaius took it. "This isn't Uther's reign any longer, Gaius. And if I have to keep fighting these battles alone, it's going to kill me."

* * *

With Guinevere on his arm, Arthur strode away from the King's Council while furiously trying to not admit to himself that he had missed Merlin winking at him from the sidelines. Their discussion had been an important one, and certainly he was lucky to have a man like Lord Savile prepared to run Camelot behind the scenes, but the lack of windows and fresh air always made the Council room a difficult one to stay in for any length of time. He was happy to stretch his legs, and to get into the more brightly lit Throne Room with the other knights.

Guinevere squeezed his bicep. "I think things are going well. Your dream is that much closer."

"I don't have dreams, Guinevere," Arthur scoffed, "those are for children. I have ambitions."

Gwen rolled her eyes, then smiled when she spied Elyan and Leon at the end of the corridor talking to one of the kitchen servants. The servant curtsied when she and Arthur approached.

"They'll be able to provide a pitcher of lemonade for us," Elyan explained.

"Oh wonderful idea," Gwen said and beamed at the elder servant. "If there is some spare food, I am quite ravenous."

The woman bowed, "I will bring some, your majesty."

As the woman left, Gwen explained, "I was in fittings for winter gowns all morning, and I never got a chance to eat."

"You've always eaten like a pig," Elyan teased, "no need to spin tales for me."

Gwen made a noise of protest, and Leon interjected, "Your majesty eats with the grace of a bird," and then smiled.

Arthur groaned, "You make me look bad when you talk like that, Leon. Besides, Merlin is the one who eats like a bird, and where has he been?"

"You gave him the day off," Gwen said with a frown.

"Yes, but then Queen Annis' letter arrived, and he should be there when we decide our travel plans," Arthur replied stubbornly.

"Percival has gone to fetch Gaius," Leon said, "and I'm sure he will bring Merlin."

"Good," Arthur said as they reached the Throne Room. Guards opened the doors for them, and as a group they walked into the vaulted chamber. Evening sunlight spilled through the stained glass windows, and the brown wood of the Round Table gleamed richly. It's eight high-backed chairs were arranged evenly around the circle.

Arthur took his usual seat, and Guinevere slipped into the chair at his left. The other knights filled in, Gwaine with a clouded expression, and Percival, with Gaius and Merlin not far behind. Merlin, though, didn't sit, instead choosing to stand behind Arthur's shoulder like a shadow, and leaving the chair at Arthur's right empty. This was the usual.

Arthur twisted round and looked at his manservant. He wondered if Merlin realized he looked only slightly warmer than a corpse. Despite that he didn't tell him to sit, because in Arthur's eyes the position had already been offered; it was up to Merlin to accept.

Though the pretense that this was Lancelot's seat may also have had something to do with the continued vacancy. "And what have you been up to? You certainly don't look like you've been sleeping."

Merlin's eyes flashed to Gwaine and then back to Arthur. He grinned lopsidedly. "I was picking herbs for Gaius." Arthur was not oblivious to Merlin and Gwaine's shared look, but that was common, as was playing drinking games and the growing habit of whiling away their on-duty hours at the tavern. If he found out Merlin hadn't actually been sick these past few days but just hungover, well, Merlin was going to die and then Arthur would blame Gwaine for his corrupting influence.

Ultimately he ignored it because he was the bigger man, and because Merlin cheekily said, "Did you call the meeting to talk about my sleep schedule?"

"Hardly," Arthur snorted. He pulled a scroll from his pocket and tossed it into the center of the table. "Queen Annis has invited us to Caerleon for Mabon's feast."

There was silence as they waited for him to continue, but Arthur refused to speak. He was a tad fearful of sounding too hopeful.

"The last time you met her we were on the verge of war," Leon said carefully, "and she had allied with Morgana."

"That's true," Arthur agreed.

"But when you won the battle of single-combat, she stayed true to her word. She seems like an honourable and strong-willed queen," Leon finished.

"Also true."

"It was your decision to kill King Caerleon," Elyan said, "and she may still want to kill you in retribution."

"If that is the case, then Guinevere must remain behind," Arthur cast his eyes to Gwen at his side. She reached over to place her hand over his. "I do want to bring her, because I have yet to meet a ruler that has not loved her."

"The only kings I've met have already been our allies," Gwen said humbly. "I'm not yet a stateswoman, at least not one that Queen Annis would respect."

"Nonsense, Guinevere."

"I don't want to leave you," she said softly, "but I will remain behind if it's for Camelot's safety."

Percival cleared his throat, "If these are peace talks, beginning them with obvious proof of suspicion may not yield the best results."

Arthur frowned, and then looked to the last three who had yet to offer an opinion. Gaius, Gwaine, and Merlin were caught up staring at each other. "Is there something you three would like to share?"

"No, nothing," Gwaine said a bit too quickly, while Gaius reached forward for the scroll. He unrolled it to read just as the kitchen servant arrived with a platter of fruit and cheeses, and a pitcher of lemonade. She handed them to Merlin and curtsied to the group before silently returning to the servant's passage.

"I didn't bring any goblets," Merlin said after he'd cocked his head and searched the recesses of the room, "so who would like me to pour this down their throat?"

Arthur made a noise of disgust. "Just go get some from the royal chambers, Merlin."

"Yes, sire," Merlin chirped, and placed the food and decanter before them. Gwen immediately popped a piece of cheese into her mouth and sighed happily.

Gaius had finished reading by then, and he said, "I do not believe she is double-crossing you, sire. I believe she wants to get the measure of you, for what purpose, I do not know. What did you say in your original message?"

"I repeated what I told her on the battlefield: It's not victory or retribution I'm after, but peace."

"Merlin will be going with you?" Gwaine interjected, and left Arthur confused.

Slowly Arthur replied, "Yes? He is the royal manservant."

"Then I say take her majesty Quinevere," Gwaine said. "I'm sure everything will turn out fine."

Arthur raised a brow, "Because Merlin will be there?"

"He's your good luck charm, isn't he?" Gwaine smirked.

Gaius very quietly put his head in his hands. Merlin returned with three goblets. "Who's the thirstiest?" He called brightly.

"That's ridiculous logic," Arthur said, "if anything, Merlin will trip and spill a pitcher of wine on Annis."

Merlin made sure one of the goblet's smacked against his ear as Merlin set them on the table. Arthur glared, and Merlin smiled innocently. "I will just stand in the corner motionlessly," Merlin said, "and I won't even snore when you start making speeches."

"My speeches," Arthur defended, "are the stuff of ages."

"Yes, with that vocabulary that's no surprise," Merlin snarked back.

"Ugh, I should have given myself more time away from you," Arthur groaned. "The point is you, Guinevere, and I are going to visit Queen Annis as soon as possible. Start packing the bags."

"Just us?" Merlin said curiously, looking out at the knights. He saw his own confusion reflected in them.

"I promised we'd visit Bayard," Arthur explained, "and we no longer have the time before the days get too short. Leon and the others will have to go to Mercia alone." He narrowed his eyes at Gwaine, "And you will act respectably as you represent Camelot."

"He's not going to be happy when he hears you blew him off for Annis," Elyan said warily.

"He's the one who owes Guinevere and I a visit, so he can't complain. Maybe it'll convince him to ride down to Camelot."

Merlin held up his hands to stop them. "Wait, I'm still stuck on the fact that just the three of us are going to Caerleon."

"Obviously, _Mer_ lin, we will be taking guards. Sir Brennis has already offered his own squad."

Merlin smiled, "So you admit you can't defend both Gwen and I?"

"Of course I can," Arthur said haughtily, "but it would look ridiculous for the king and queen of a country to be traveling alone with a single manservant."

"Whatever you say, sire," Merlin said smartly.

Arthur gestured toward the royal chambers behind the throne. "Go do something useful and take our clothes to be laundered." Merlin bowed sarcastically and turned away, walking back for the chambers. Arthur was impressed. Merlin had given as good as he got, despite his haggard appearance. "Oh, and Merlin?"

Merlin turned from where he stood on the dais.

"You look more terrible than usual, and I don't want Annis thinking I torture my servants." Merlin stared at him blankly, and Arthur leveled a finger at him. "You better be in bed by evening bell, or it's the stocks for you."

Some of the tension surrounding Merlin slipped from his posture, and his strange expression slowly morphed into his familiar shit-eating grin. "Oh, Arthur, you really do care."

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Borden is a character from the show who puts together the pieces of the key to open Aithusa's egg's tomb.  
(2) I sketched out Camelot and the castle before I knew about Pierrefonds, and based my sketches solely on images from the website. Due to this, there are areas of the city like the Plaza (a wide area just within the front gates), Dragonsbane Square (a central location with one of the main wells), and both an Upper Town and a Lower Town.  
(3) In this vein, I put the royal bedchambers in the doors that can be seen behind the thrones (images on the Merlin wiki). (Medieval royal's rooms were usually in the great hall, sometimes divided only by a screen, so I messed with this a bit.)  
(4) Merlin was briefly tortured in Two Can Keep A Secret (Part 1). He's missing a nail, has got a mostly healed welt along his arm and his sternum, and a deep gash in his hip. Gaius covered his finger in cotton.  
(5) In Magic Incarnate (Part 1), Merlin is thrown into the past and witnesses Gaius' failed attempts to prevent Uther from slaughtering many Druids.  
(6) Quinevere is a nickname we decided on together back in A Tale of Two Patrols (Part 1).

 **Author's Note:**

I want to reiterate that this is Part 2. I also know some of you are going to glance over at Part 1 and balk '100k+ works, uh yeah, maybe later.' I understand, truly I do. I'll do my best to reintroduce plotlines and characters when they first appear in Part 2, and if I don't do well enough, there will always be footnotes. The last chapter of Part 1 will be an overview of chapters and characters; feel free to use it as a legend for quick skimming.

No long A/N this time, I just want to finally get Part 2 started. Thank you all for reading this far! Thanks to Linorien for convincing me to have a longer section in Gwaine's POV, I think that worked much better, and thanks to Jewelsmg for the excitement over Colin's new show. Go watch it, it looks so awesome! I wish I had the time!

 **Next time** : Matchmaker's Return Policy.


	2. Matchmaker's Return Policy

—

 **Matchmaker's Return Policy  
** _The Ides of September_

Brennis rode at the front of their party straight-backed and proud. His red cloak billowed over the rear of his horse and his sword clanked at his hip with every step. He would have made the perfect representation of a knight of Camelot if it were not for the bow and arrow—the Pelham family's crest—carved onto his shield.

As young men he and Arthur had trained together, learning swordplay and politics, and trading jibes at their instructor's expense. However as Arthur had grown closer to Merlin and the other knights, their friendship had waned. Now, Arthur saw the knight riding ahead of them as a reflection of the brash, haughty king he could have been.

Brennis held up a fist, their signal to halt, and the large group passed along the message until even the Round Table knights at the back of the pack saw and pulled up short. "Scout returning!" Brennis shouted.

Arthur spurred ahead from where he rode next to Guinevere, clad in her traveling clothes, and pulled alongside Brennis as a man slowed from a gallop to a soft canter. He had light brown hair and a spattering of freckles. This was Drystan, one of the newer members of Brennis' squad, recently promoted from a simple castle guard and still very eager to prove himself. "The path splits for Mercia not far ahead, and further on I've found a defendable clearing for us to make camp."

"Excellent," Brennis said.

"We'll have to travel at a faster clip to make it before dark," Drystan explained further. Understandable, given that the man had left at first light while the rest of them followed with the queen and their pack horses. The sun had already passed its zenith, and it would sink quickly from here. Luckily they had no royal carriage or ladies in waiting to slow them down.

"Merlin will have a fresh horse for you," Arthur said, and pointed his manservant out in the crowd. Drystan nodded and trotted over to Merlin, who had previously been nearer the back, but had of course ventured closer in curiosity. While Drystan swung from his saddle, he tossed his reins to Merlin who winced when he caught the leather straps.

With a cocked brow Arthur approached, setting an offside order to Brennis. "Determine the route with Drystan. I'll tell the others to keep up." Really, though, he just wanted an excuse to stick his head half into Merlin's personal space and ask, "What did you do to your hand?" as soon as they were out of earshot of his childhood friend.

The scout's horse's reins were gripped tightly in Merlin's fist, which also had a thick bandage around his forefinger. Merlin's lie was practiced and smooth, not that Arthur realized. "Smashed it while grinding some herbs for Gaius."

"You've had that bandage for days now; if you hit yourself that hard then you really must be the most clumsy servant in Camelot."

Merlin shrugged noncommittally. "At least I'm not the fattest king ever to grace the throne."

Arthur scoffed. "This is all muscle."

"Covered in a layer of lard, perhaps."

"You're just jealous," Arthur said smartly.

"Of a prat like you? Never."

Arthur smirked, "You should be, idiot." Then he turned his horse sharply to the side and smiled at Gwen, quickly filling her in on the short plan. Merlin watched briefly before Gwaine elbowed him.

"I could tell you were lying," were the first words from his mouth.

Merlin frowned. "I didn't lie."

Gwaine rolled his eyes and muttered, "Come on, mate, you promised." He nudged them both to the side, carefully reading Merlin's body language until the man looked less jumpy at being overheard.

"Maybe I did lie," he said quietly while picking idly at the wrappings, "but what's passed is past, and there is no use in bringing it up now."

Gwaine shook his head, "You owe me more than that, mate."

Merlin sighed. "It's difficult to just talk about these things out of the blue. What if I asked you what I should tell your sister, if I run into her while in Annis' court?"

Gwaine looked uncomfortable. "That's unlikely. We were penniless, and had already sold everything in our family house by the time I left."

Merlin made a face at Gwaine's avoidance of the answer. "See how hard that was?"

Gwaine shrugged, now peeking over their shoulders himself to make sure no one was watching them. "I guess I see your point." He huffed and scowled at the scout's horse. "But I'm tired of the secrets, mate. You trust me, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Merlin said wearily. "I trust you, Gwaine." But Gwaine hardly knew a fraction of the truth, and his tune might change when he realized just how much Merlin had blurred the lines. On top of that, there was always a strange tension about the knight, like he was holding back.

Gwaine's eyes flicked from Merlin's finger to his friend's tense expression. "Why don't you want to tell me?"

Merlin sighed. "Mostly because it's a long story and you'd have a lot of other questions that I'm still figuring out how to answer."

"You got a short version?"

Merlin hesitated, then looked away. "The lady who did this to my hand is dead. She was killed because she knew...about me."

Gwaine was obviously surprised, and he was only partially joking when he asked, "That's not a common event, is it?"

"No, but…" Merlin trailed off, looking troubled and antsy again.

Gwaine stopped him. "I get it, that's all the answers I'm going to get today. Hide all your flaws until after our wedding, right?"

Merlin balked, "What?"

Gwaine winked with a cheesy expression until Merlin cracked a grin, relaxing again. Then Gwaine smiled and explained himself, offering a bit of his own hidden truths. "It was a joke my sister used to tell. She said you couldn't get a good noble husband unless you had an aura of mystery."

Merlin chuckled and shook his head. "You're insane, Gwaine."

The knight laughed darkly, flicking his hair over his shoulder and leaning in closer. "Is it too soon to say, 'Till death do us part'?"

* * *

Merlin bent over the handful of tinder and struck his flint. While his body blocked the low breeze, the sparks caught on the shaved wood in bursts of red that ate through the tendrils faster than others could light. He had to curl the tinder into the bowl of his hands and coax the fire with his breath, and when he was finally awarded with smoke and flame, he had to move quickly to catch that moment with thin sticks.

After that it was easy to feed increasingly larger pieces of wood onto the growing cone until the campfire flickered strongly in the evening light. He sat back on his heels and smiled, allowing himself the pleasure of this small victory.

 _Forb_ _ _æ_ rne_ had been a spell he'd known and used before he'd truly known the word. Magic had come to him so instinctively that seeing the manual, intricate way of doing things had always fascinated him as a child. An artisan's ability to create something from nearly nothing with only their two hands was a special brand of magic.

With starting the fire the last of his available chores, Merlin looked about their camp, wondering what he should busy himself with now. Arthur and Gwen's bedrolls were nearby, and a ring of guards had already lain their own mats around them. Brennis and a group of men had gone to clear the area, though, so it was fairly quiet. Plus, with the Round Table knights already on their way to Mercia, Merlin was mostly left to his own devices.

As the flames heated his knees while he wavered, he couldn't help but be reminded of the dragons. He'd have to tell Kilgharrah how things were going with Gwaine. He also hoped Aithusa was doing better, and wondered how Kilgharrah would heal her legs, if he could.

"Merlin!" Arthur called as he returned to the clearing. "Working hard or hardly working?"

Merlin rolled his eyes and stood, holding out his arms for Gwen's traveling clothes. She had just changed into something more comfortable to sleep in. "I've got it, Merlin," the queen said and sat on her bedroll, pulling over one of her packs and beginning to reload it.

"You're sure you don't want me to make a hot meal?" Merlin asked the royal couple.

"Not unless you have enough for the rest of the men _and_ yourself," Gwen returned without looking up. She was digging through the pack now, removing things she had already spent the time to replace. "Oh dear," she said. "I didn't bring the fancy slippers."

"What do you need those for?" Arthur snorted.

"For the festival!" Her brow creased. "Or do you think it's outdoors? It is a harvest festival."

"Ealdor's was always outside," Merlin offered, perhaps unhelpfully. "And there was always dancing."

Gwen laughed brightly, "I have yet to see Arthur perform a courtly dance. Though that means I've had little chance to practice."

"Court dances are very boring, and if we ever get trapped in a line, I'm sure you'll learn very quickly."

"Arthur won't dance with you because he is terrible at it, and he always steps on his partner's feet," Merlin grinned.

"I do not," Arthur defended.

Merlin leaned over and in a loud whisper pretended to pass along a secret. "When he was a prince he _always_ stepped on my feet when we practiced."

Gwen burst into giggles as Arthur's face reddened. Stroppily he said, "Why are you always starting rumors like that? Leon still thinks we practice poetry in our spare time."

She had to clench her hands over her abdomen as her laughter intensified. Emboldened, Merlin's eyes began to twinkle. "Because if I didn't, your giant head—"

"Don't say it, Merlin."

Merlin cleared his throat. "Your giant head would float right off your neck and into the clouds." Arthur's expression went blank, then he vaulted forward and caught his friend's head in his arms, digging his knuckles into Merlin's scalp and waiting for cries of mercy. Unsurprisingly Merlin yelped, "There are witnesses!"

Arthur released him and leveled a finger at Merlin's nose, fighting back a grin. "Let that be a lesson to you. And for clarification, _if_ we practiced the dances, and _if_ I stepped on your feet, it would be because you kept messing up the woman's parts."

"Yes, sire," Merlin agreed with a smile, hands still protecting the top of his head. He winked at Gwen who giggled again.

"Well if you've taught Arthur everything he knows, then surely you can teach me as well?" Gwen raised a brow and held out her hand. Despite her broad smile, she had perfected the imitation of a haughty noblewoman being dragged onto the dance floor against her will. That was, until Merlin whirled her to her feet and the illusion was lost in her laughter.

"Well then, my lady, I'll show you the harvest dance from my village." Merlin placed her arms length away and propped his hands on his hips. "The adults called it the Spiral, but as a boy I always called it the grapevine."

"Oh?" Gwen said.

"It's all in the feet, and the pattern reminded me of the twisting vines," he explained while his feet imitated his words. It was a simple over-under motion that Gwen followed quickly. "That's it! Then you mix it up if you want." He held out his hands and she lay her hands in his. Some of the guards were watching by this point, but she ignored them for the beat her friend began to tap against her wrists. "Ready?"

He grinned and then launched them around the fire. At first the circle was simple and Gwen matched his steps easily, but maybe she shouldn't have quipped, "This isn't so bad."

"We're still warming up," Merlin smiled wider, then whirled her about. She stumbled for a moment but caught onto the faster pace, this time following a spiral path that nearly trampled Arthur and a few nearby guards.

"Excuse us!" She laughed breathlessly, soon unable to even concentrate on speaking as they sped up again, flipping back and forth in snakes and spirals. Merlin began sounding out the beat of the song, and she was lost in the whirlwind of steps and both of their gasping laughter. She wondered if the dance was usually this wild, but found she was having too much fun to care.

When her hands finally slipped from his grasp, she fell onto her rump. Arthur quickly scooped her up and deposited her back on her bedroll as Merlin collapsed on the ground, catching his breath between chuckles.

"I tried to warn you," Arthur joked.

"It's much better with a large group," Merlin said from the ground. "Join us next time, Arthur?"

"And risk someone else seeing me involved with that flower party? I'd rather be caught naked."

"Oh, Arthur, you are such a sour old man sometimes!" Gwen planted a kiss on his cheek. "Lucky for you though, I love you."

Arthur, however, was still caught up teasing his friend, who had rolled his eyes with such vigor that his whole head had moved. "Don't get excited, Merlin, I know you like to admire me when I'm shirtless."

"Those are looks of pity, Arthur." Merlin climbed to his feet and walked the steps to his own mat, flopping into it bodily. "Gwen's love for you has blinded her to your many faults. Do you know I slip her smelling salts when the stench of your socks becomes too much?"

"That's not true, Arthur," Gwen cut in after after a stern glance at Merlin. "He's teasing you."

* * *

Merlin woke suddenly at the changing of the guard.

He had drifted to sleep against his will in the early night, and now in the darkest hours he lay staring at the canopy of leaves shifting in the wind. As his mind caught up with his body he noticed Arthur's light snores from nearby, and the low voices of the men as they whispered either instructions or jokes.

After a few minutes it was obvious he was far too wired to lay there waiting, so he flipped the blanket from his body and slipped his feet into his boots. He was careful to avoid the bodies as he picked his way out of their encampment, and slipped into the treeline with only the briefest of glances from a knight. Maybe they'd think he'd needed a walk.

That was true in a way: he'd needed a brisk one to put some distance between himself and any watchful eyes and ears. At first he had been caught up in the escape, but the other noises of the forest obscured the guards' murmurs and the crunch of his steps faster than he expected. The insects were loud and calling each other in the last weeks before winter, and the rush of a small brook filled the spaces in between.

He found the water soon enough, and the flat expanse of it stretched from his left and spilled over a bundle of rocks at his feet to wind away to his right. Small bugs dotted the surface of the stream, and larger ones skittered after them on long legs and membraneous wings. A pair of shining dragonflies alit on a branch near his face, seemed to dance around each other, and then flew on for another perch.

The large wings of an owl swept by him and into the heights of a tree above, it's hunter's sight focused on a rodent nibbling in the greenbriar. When Merlin moved to sit on a flat-topped boulder, its head swiveled and it stared at him with large, dark eyes.

The souls of this place teemed around him, with more creatures just out of his vision, yet filling his senses until his entire being beat with the drum of the earth. Life built up in a crescendo, and at its fullest Merlin leaned his head back and roared for the dragons.

In that moment, something odd happened. His sense of self had fuzzed around the edges for a split second, and it left him wide eyed with a funny hum in his ears.

He would have normally explained this away with lack of sleep, but his instincts told him this was not true in this case. When he had channeled the raw magic of Albion while trapped in the Sarrum's castle, forcibly ripping aside the veil between his magic and the chaos that was the world's magic now, he had invited some alien effect on his soul. Despite the sieve being mostly healed, Merlin doubted he would ever feel entirely the same.

Without any conscious effort now, he saw the magic he'd expelled to call Kilgharrah spiraling before his face. It was a golden curl, spinning in an infinite loop, and wafting over his head in widening ripples like the beacon it was.

While he had never seen this particular shade of magic before, that was not what made him pause. He could still feel the energy vibrating; or was it that he could still hear it buzzing? It was a strange sense, like his magic did not just encompass his body. After many long moments filled with confusion he realized-he had a peephole into the vast array of energy around him.

Curious, he used his usual magic to release a ball of blue light overhead, and he waited for the familiar feel as the sliver of his own magic left him to return to the earth. But this time, as the ball of light began to fade, he reached out through that crack in his veil and grasped the fading spell. That magic that had formerly been his now felt foreign, unstable, but he tightened his hold and lit the ball aglow again. This time he did not have to feed it from his own source of magic, but instead through the trickle of raw magic around it.

It was a fascinating challenge. At first he was clumsy and heavy-handed, as if he were weaving with numbed fingers. Then, once he'd talked himself into channeling that magic through himself, it chilled like ice water using his core as a turnabout. He was fully preoccupied until Kilgharrah and Aithusa landed nearby, the latter of which immediately dunked her head into the river.

Her legs were still crippled, and Merlin asked, "Are they fixable?"

Kilgharrah understood his train of thought and answered swiftly, "Yes, over time. I've healed the existing fractures and bruises. Now I hope for her to regain her strength before we begin to rebuild her bones and muscles." Kilgharrah sounded thoughtful. "I will have to do it incrementally."

Still curious, and noting that Aithusa mostly seemed to ignore them, he asked, "Can she speak yet?"

"Teaching her the Common Tongue is not my priority, young warlock. Aithusa will learn in time." Kilgharrah tossed his head. "Now I have some questions for you. What have you told the knight?"

"Not much in the grand scheme of things," Merlin muttered. "He knows that you won't attack Camelot, but he thinks that's due only to our friendship. And he knows how valuable you are to me, and to Arthur's future."

The Great Dragon snorted. "Unsurprisingly he is viewing the trees of the wood, and not the forest around them."

"He's a good friend, Kilgharrah, and he will be a great ally in the fights to come. You don't see him when you look for the future?"

"One of Camelot's various knights? Not everyone has a great destiny."

Merlin frowned. "I met a dwarf on a bridge who once called me Magic, and him Strength."

"Strength?" Kilgharrah mused. "Now that would make things interesting."

Aithusa hopped forward and plopped her head in his lap, distracting them both. She was not yet dry from the river and the water soaked into his trousers. Uncaring of the chill she smiled up at him, and, unsurprisingly, an image of Morgana slipped past his vision. Merlin sighed and said in the dragon tongue, " _I'm not sure, Aithusa. I haven't seen her since. I'll try to find out, for you, when I have some time, alright?"_

She harrumphed and a flicker of flame lit in her nostrils, but then she followed by thumping her tail playfully against his leg and rolling onto her back. Merlin leaned down to tickle her stomach, and she chirped.

"She does seem much stronger," he said to Kilgharrah.

"She is," Kilgharrah said proudly. Then continued, " _Aithusa, show him your breath."_

Aithusa rolled back to her feet and twisted so her jaws faced away from him. Happily she stretched until the bright scales of her neck darkened, and from her mouth shot a jet of white hot flame. It was short but intense, and Merlin could feel the wave of heat from where he sat. "That's better than yours," Merlin said cheekily.

Kilgharrah rankled. "Younglings can generally reach higher temperatures. It's a defense mechanism." He flapped his wings haughtily. "And she is small for her age."

Merlin reached an arm around her head, and petted her softly on the cheek. " _That was beautiful, Little Dawn."_ She smiled at his praise, and he rubbed at her chin. " _Kilgharrah and I want to see you whole again. You will stay with him, won't you? Until you are healed?"_

Aithusa nodded, seemingly frustrated but accepting, and then slipped away, her jaw snapping playfully after an insect that flew too close.

"Thank you for flying out to meet me, Kilgharrah. You and Aithusa are safe from discovery, I swear it."

"I expect nothing less, my dragonlord," Kilgharrah replied. "Though I will rest easier tonight." He stalked closer to Aithusa and nudged her with his snout, bringing her attention from the critters and back to them. "Goodbye, young warlock, for now."

"Good luck, Kilgharrah," Merlin said. "If I can help, you'll tell me?"

Kilgharrah nodded and rose through trees with a push of his legs and a few steady flaps of his wings. Aithusa followed quickly after, bidden partially by the order Merlin had bound her by, and soon he was alone again with the animals and river.

With nothing to keep him, and with a desire to steal another sleep cycle before dawn, he trekked back to their campsite. It only took a flicker of magic to let him slip past the nearest guard unnoticed, and his bedroll wasn't much further on.

A murmur came from Arthur's mat, and he paused when the sound came a second time and had the cadence of sensible words. "What?" Merlin ventured quietly.

"Where have you been?" Arthur asked, still half asleep and with eyes glued nearly shut.

Merlin put on a wide, fake smile, not that Arthur could see it. "Er, gathering herbs?"

"In the dead of night?" Arthur mumbled into his pillow.

"It's peaceful."

Arthur cracked an eye and stared at him blearily through the dark. "There is definitely something very wrong with you."

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Sir Brennis is reintroduced fairly well at the beginning, I believe (P1: A Roll in the Hay, Cinderella, A Tale of Two Patrols).  
(2) Drystan, also reintroduced fairly well I'd say (P1: It's Just A Prank, Bro).  
(3) I took some cues from the Spiral Dance, a group dance for a harvest festival / autumnal equinox.  
(4) Merlin refers to some events from P1: Two Can Keep A Secret, where his magic is completely drained and he channels raw magic.

 **Author's Note:**

I have a confession: every time I write "Author's Note", I accidentally type "Arthur". Also, this was such a wonderful week and I feel so lucky that so many people reviewed after a month of silence on my part! A reviewer asked if part 2 would still be weekly, and the answer is yes. Thursday/Friday will be difficult for the next month or so, so we're going with Sunday/Monday for now.

I felt such relief writing some happier moments, it was a breath of fresh air for me and for Merlin. I think he needed it. Also, I am enjoying the dynamic between he, Gwen, and Arthur. They all are close, and I love that. He and Gwaine used to be that close, but I know they're working to fully repair that friendship. It'll happen. There are still some conversations that they very much need to have.

Kilgharrah will steadily be healing Aithusa throughout Part 2. We'll come back and see their progress later, but they'll be on their own for a bit. Thanks to Jewels for preventing me from going really destructive with Aithusa's legs, and to Linorien for her terribly important edits, and for convincing me to extend the dance. And as always, PM's inbound for the non-guest reviewers. Thanks again!

 **Next time** : The Betas.


	3. The Betas

**The Betas** _  
Mabon's Feast_

There was no castle as beautiful as Camelot's, but Caerleon's was certainly as grand.

When they pulled around the trail's corner it rose, imposing, over the treeline, and Merlin slowed on his horse and stared up while the guards split around him. Three tiers rose from the hilltop before them, each a square encompassing another, with a tall rectangular tower at their center. Caerleon's house banner flew from its peak, whipping in the winds, a snarling wolf on a background of midnight blue.

Arthur reached over and slapped Anemos' rump, making the horse gallop forward suddenly. Merlin yelped, and Arthur laughed, "You won't get a closer look sitting here!"

The entrance into the first tier was a long, arched hallway that opened into a wide thoroughfare. Guards led them forward until they arrived at an iron gate that brushed Merlin's head as he passed underneath it. While the first tier had appeared like Caerleon's version of the seedier regions of Camelot's Lower Town, awash with peasants and hawking merchants and cheap places to grab a pint, the second tier took what was scattered around Camelot and distilled it into pretty-faced shop fronts. Merlin thought he caught a glimpse of a large Apothecary and an old woman watching them from a doorstep, before he was ushered towards a third gate.

Annis awaited them here, in her citadel, and the keep flanked her.

Arthur and Gwen dismounted from their horses to greet her, but Merlin paid less attention to her words and more attention to her face, and those of her warriors around her. She had sharp features, and her gaze was so alert that when it focused on you, you had the urge to duck your head. She had little patience for incompetence, and those that followed her were proud to do so. Merlin noticed they were dressed differently than the knights of Camelot and many of the knights of the realm; they favored leather and many wielded weapons other than swords.

"That's enough of pleasantries," Annis announced suddenly. "I have already been waiting out here for a length of time, and we certainly aren't going to get anything done standing on these steps." She wore a dress the same blue as her house, and wrapped around her shoulders was a cloak adorned with a thick fur collar. When she turned, the wolf's head that had grown that pelt rested between her shoulderblades. "I trust you aren't in need of a nap?"

The queen had sounded sarcastic, but Gwen replied with her chin held high. "We at least will need to drop off our traveling bags."

"Then meet me in my Solar when you are settled. Derian will show you the way." She paused on the top stair and gestured the warrior forward. Arthur recognized him immediately, but it took Merlin a moment longer to place the horse-faced man. He was tall and brutish, and he cast an imposing shadow over Arthur, but respect for the king showed on his face. Ah, that's right, this was the man Arthur had spared during the trial of single-combat.

Arthur gave a curt nod to the warrior, and Annis swept away. A handful of Caerleon's servants took their horses, and Merlin trailed after Derian, Arthur, and Gwen while carrying the packs. It was a quiet affair, and when they finally arrived at the guest chambers the man barked gruffly, "I'll wait outside," and closed the door behind them.

Merlin's mouth quirked and he tried to hide it as he put the bags on a bench. The guest room was a large square with a bed at one end, and a row of windows at the other. He went there next, pulling back the series of drapes as a chuckle escaped him. He hoped the sound of the cloth had covered it, but no such luck.

"What's so funny, _Mer_ lin?" Arthur said drily, the sound of his jacket being pulled from his shoulders and rolled into a ball unmistakable.

"You got ordered around like a servant," Merlin snickered, and the wad of fabric hit him in the back of the head.

"I'm still optimistic," Arthur said.

"Because she didn't slap you this time?" Merlin remarked, recalling the time Arthur had snuck into Annis' camp.

"Hilarious, Merlin, truly."

Gwen had gathered a simple gown and delicate tunic in her arms and had slipped behind a folding screen soon after their entrance. Her voice was muffled, but they still plainly heard her call, "You never told me she slapped you, Arthur."

Merlin grinned at Arthur's dirty look, and in retribution Arthur whispered, "Shall I remind Annis of her wish to have you killed?"

Merlin held up his hands in acquiescence, and Gwen emerged from the folding screen with her hands in her hair. "Tell me if there are any brambles," she said, turning so they could see her brown curls cascading down her back.

"You look impeccable as usual, Guinevere," Arthur replied. He held out an arm to her which she took, and then he reached for a water goblet on the table and chugged it in a series of gulps. She and Merlin exchanged a humorous look at Arthur's obvious nervousness. He shook himself after and cleared his throat, barking, "All right, let's do this," as if he were about to run out into battle.

"We will make a proper peace with her, Arthur, I'm sure of it," Gwen said with an encouraging smile. "I have faith in us."

Arthur allowed himself a small smile back at her, then led them to the door. His hand was on the handle when he said, "Merlin, I don't hear you following us."

He wasn't, of course. He was still standing by the windows, and when Arthur's head swiveled with narrowed eyes, Merlin grinned sheepishly. "But it's going to be so boring."

Gwen knew that Arthur wanted his best friend there, but would be much too proud to ask for it. She also knew Merlin was being stubborn on a lark, likely to rile Arthur up and make him forget his nerves. Playing her part, she said, "At least stick it out for the first hour."

Arthur snorted. "And if you aren't enjoying it by then, then consider it punishment for something you've gotten away with."

Merlin crossed the room and bowed mockingly. "Yes, your hiney-ness."

When he rose, Arthur reached forward to flick him in the forehead. While Merlin was pouting Arthur said, "Fantasizing about my arse again?"

Merlin smiled innocently. "Just thinking of how you are one giant one, sire."

* * *

Gwaine flopped, his arms hanging over the castle's edge. "I'm _bored._ Let's play a game."

Elyan sighed, "We're not playing 'Three Women' again, Gwaine."

The three knights were leaning over the stone walls of Mercia's highest battlement, their vantage point bringing a stiff wind into their faces and a view down into the town below. Leon had sent them away to stretch their legs.

After an exaggerated sigh, Gwaine remarked idly, "Leon and Bayard really get on."

"They have a lot of respect for each other," Percival agreed.

Elyan hummed. "Must come from all those battles when Uther was king."

They paused their (fairly lackluster) conversation to greet a guard as he passed. He didn't look worried to find three Camelot knights lounging along his route, and Gwaine snorted to himself, thinking that they _could_ have been up to something nefarious if Elyan wasn't always so upstanding.

When he was gone, Percival asked, "Anyone know what all that talk about a poisoned chalice was about?"

Elyan nodded while Gwaine flicked a small stone over the edge, all three watching it plummet. "Gwen told me awhile back. Some sorceress tried to poison Arthur and frame King Bayard for it. Merlin found out and drank it instead."

Gwaine's eyes widened. "He _drank_ it?"

Elyan shrugged, "Apparently he burst into the throne room shouting about it, with absolutely no proof. He had no choice."

Percival smiled softly. "Classic Merlin. Arthur's lucky."

Elyan explained a few more details, like how Arthur had disobeyed Uther to get Merlin the antidote, but Gwaine's mind tripped back to the fact that Merlin 'had no proof'. That seemed a little preposterous. Either Merlin had found an empty poison bottle, or he'd seen the sorceress himself, and either case he could have presented to the court.

Though, perhaps Merlin was already friends with the dragon by then, and the dragon had told him. Just how long had they been working together? Surely not since _before_ the dragon had attacked Camelot?

Gwaine's face pinched. He had so few facts. He wanted to trust his friend, but Merlin made that so hard to do sometimes.

"Why so sour?" Percival nudged him, and Gwaine tried to smooth out his face. "I thought you'd be delighted to use _that_ against Arthur."

"What?" Gwaine asked in confusion.

Elyan waved a hand. "You snooze, you lose."

* * *

Merlin shut the door to Annis' Council Chambers behind himself and grinned to the blank wall of the hallway.

After three days of moral support, he was finally _free!_ Well, he still had to pretend to do his chores, but this was still a sweet, sweet freedom. He may even have skipped a little. Colliding with a kitchen scullion and sending metalwear skidding all over the stones wasn't even enough to dampen his spirits.

She, however, fell to her knees with a dramatic gasp. She put the back of her hand to her forehead and called, "Oh, what shall I do?"

One of Camelot's knights was at the far end of the hallway, and he looked at her pillowed in her skirts and then glanced away, pretending to have something else to do. His chainmail clanked as his pace away increased.

"Are you alright?" Merlin said, already gathering some of the dishes.

She turned her head sharply, as if she'd only just noticed him there. "Hallo, there." Her eyes raked over him quickly, and then she scooted closer and smiled brightly. "I'm Ari."

He smiled kindly. "I'm Merlin." He handed her the plates he stacked, and she held them loosely on her lap. She made no move to pick up the other things scattered round the floor, so he shrugged to himself and moved away to do it for her.

"Are you new here, Merlin?" She said, tracking his movements and beaming at him whenever he dropped a few more things into her lap. He nodded, and she said, "Me too. Only been doing this a few years, but guess what?"

"What?" he said, when he'd handed her the last of the scattered dishes. Their tall tower wobbled slightly in her lap, hardly balanced by her hands, and Merlin scooped them away from her to prevent them from toppling again.

He held a hand out to her which she took happily, continuing to whisper to him in her excitement. "I think they're going to finally promote me!"

He had no comment for this, especially when she made no effort to help him carry the dishes, but he smiled brightly at her anyways. "Congrats, Ari."

"Isn't it wonderful!" She squealed, already fast friends, and he chuckled lightly.

"Let's take these to the kitchens and get you that promotion," he grinned.

"Oh dear, I almost forgot!" She smacked herself lightly on the head. "Running into you made it fly right out of my mind!" Her train of thought was impossible to follow, and he was left quirking his brow. "I have got to get these to the Great Hall _right now!"_

"For the nobles?" Merlin said hesitantly. "I don't think they'll appreciate the fact that these have been all over the ground."

"Oh, but it took me all morning to wash these!" She said mournfully. "I don't think they'll notice. Come on, we _must_ hurry, _or else_ , Hilda said, _or else!_ I'm already late!"

She hurried away, her skirts in her hands, and Merlin had no choice but to follow her, else she find the meaning of that 'else'.

When they burst into the Great Hall Ari giggled, "We've beat her!" She then grabbed the top half of the stack of dishes from Merlin, and began haphazardly tossing them along the long lines of the feasting tables. Merlin followed behind, placing his share of the plates on the royal's and higher noble's tables. He made sure to put the plate with the dent where he was certain Arthur would sit.

Throughout all this, Ari kept up a steady stream of chatter, talking about Hilda from the kitchen staff, and then the gossips of the other ladies from that realm of the citadel. When finished with her side of the room she flounced onto a tabletop and began swinging her feet. "—it's really quite scandalous!"

Merlin smiled, not quite having understood much of what she said. "Well, I have to prepare Arthur and Gwen's chambers now." He stood awkwardly for a moment and then waved goodbye.

Ari, however, gained another layer of excitement and leaped to stand beside him. "I've wanted to see those! I've never had the chance but I heard they're very high up in the keep—"

She continued on, and Merlin sighed inwardly. Oh well, she was sort of endearing.

By this time Merlin had picked up on the way back to the guest chambers, not through the servant's passageways, but Ari, surprisingly, did not veer him to more hidden routes. Instead, she leaned over and said, "The king brought a lot of knights with him, didn't he?"

"Some knights, but mostly guards," Merlin answered.

She squeaked. "I'll get to serve them tonight, if Hilda doesn't stop me!" Her eyes widened, and she turned to him with her mouth popped open in a round 'o'. "You're the king's servant, aren't you?"

 _At long last, she noticed,_ Merlin thought with a small laugh.

"Introduce me to some of the knights later, alright? I like the tall and strong ones." She smiled and clapped her hands giddily, and Merlin agreed with an even greater laugh.

"They'll like you," he said.

They entered the royal's rooms, and Merlin busied himself by laying out various outfits for Arthur. Gwen was sure to make him change, despite whatever fight he'd put up about it. Ari followed him without embarrassment and fluttered to the windows, but was quickly distracted and began to inspect the drapes and decorations with distaste. "Everything here is so clunky and stiff."

"I'd call it utilitarian," Merlin replied, and watched her flit to Gwen's over-gown lying over the folding screen. It was a dark tan with intricate gold embroidery which she planned to wear atop a deep purple dress.

Ari oohed over it and picked it up to see it modeled over her own plainer clothes. "Do you think I could try it on?"

"Er…" Merlin said quickly. "That's likely a bad idea."

She sighed, pouting. "Yes, you're certainly right." Her eyes lingered on the fabric as she replaced it, but swung for the door with surprise when Arthur and Gwen arrived. Ari blanched, and dropped into a perfect curtsy. "Your majesties."

Arthur blinked, his mind stuttering, but Gwen swiftly answered her. "And how are you?"

"Very well, your highness. I believe I will be promoted soon!" She smiled airily, and then gasped. "Oh dear, I've forgotten the goblets! I must leave, forgive me!" She curtsied again and hurried away, Arthur watching her disappear down the hall.

He turned back to Merlin frowning. "I leave you alone for two seconds and you bring a girl into my rooms!"

Merlin shrugged helplessly, grinning. Arthur rolled his eyes in exasperation and stalked over to the bed where Merlin had lain out his clothes. He unbuckled his sword and tossed it out of his way, onto the pillows. "Did it end badly?" Merlin asked, trying to read Arthur's frustration.

Arthur swiftly trapped himself in his doublet, and Merlin jovially stood by and watched him struggle. Gwen answered from behind the folding screen. "I think it ended very well—I'm sure we've almost fully convinced her to help us build the fortified highway. Perhaps by the time we leave…."

Arthur escaped, and his blonde hair stuck up at odd angles. He threw the red doublet onto a chair and then peered at the various articles of clothing Merlin had arranged. "What color should I wear?" He called to his wife.

"Purple," she said instantly.

"I'm not wearing purple," he replied with a sour turn of his mouth. Merlin pointed out a tan colored doublet and Arthur picked it up. "She mentioned Morgana, just as we were shaking hands at the close—wanted to know my plans for her, due to her inclination to instigate wars. Said she heard a rumor Morgana was bumming around with Odin."

"Oh?" Gwen said, as her former gown hit the top of the screen and her evening one disappeared.

Arthur continued. "But I _know_ that's a lie, because of what you told me." He turned to Merlin while tugging the creases from his shirt. "She was impressed."

Merlin beamed. "Glad I could help."

"So I decide to reward you, and then I arrive back here to find you cavorting with a servant girl."

Merlin squawked. "I was not cavorting!" Then a smile danced at his lips and he continued, "And what if I was gathering more intel for you?" Arthur raised a brow, beckoning him to continue, and Merlin launched into a string of Ari's gossip. "Kea is getting married tonight, to Oren from the castle staff. She's marrying quite high for her station and apparently she's—"

"Oh _shut up, Merlin._ "

Primly, Merlin replied, "Not quite yet, sire. You still have to tell me what's bothering you."

Gwen appeared from behind the screen with a knowing smile. "You can't hide anything from Merlin, Arthur." She reached up to tamp down Arthur's errant locks, and tuck them carefully into his circlet.

Arthur sighed while he let Gwen adjust his clothing further, focusing on a point of empty space somewhere in the center of the room. "There's still something she's waiting to say, but there's little chance left for her to say it."

"Perhaps she'll mention it tonight."

Arthur frowned and turned away from them both, buckling his sword back on. His hand lingered on the hilt, and he said, "If it's something about her husband, then there's nothing I can offer. She could still become another Odin." He put a hand over his face and muttered to himself, "Why did I let him talk me into that?"

He was talking about Agravaine, and how his uncle had convinced him to kill the once king of Caerleon. Gwen shared a glance with Merlin and then delicately put her hands on Arthur's shoulders.

"That's not what she's holding back," Gwen said softly. "You fought that battle, and it's passed."

Arthur's eyes were full of emotion. "If things had played out differently, and I had lost you instead—" He broke off. "How could she ever forgive me?"

Merlin strode until he stood before Arthur, and though he lowered his voice, his words still rang clear and true. "She already has. Just as Iseldir has for many of the injustices against the Druids." Arthur's gaze clung to him. It was for this wisdom that Merlin always proved himself invaluable. "She, and Iseldir, see you for the just king that you already are, and for the great king that you will become."

* * *

Arthur rolled the dark wine in his goblet, watching the dark liquid cling to the metal edges of his cup.

So far the feast had made for a splendid meal, and Annis had kept them well-entertained with a musician gifted with an even voice. He had nothing to complain about, but he could not shake the instinct that they had left one stone left unturned, and thus he was unable to fully enjoy the evening.

He was bringing the goblet to his mouth when Merlin's hand shot past and stole it from his hands. Merlin refilled it, then leaned forward to return it to the table, nudging Arthur with his elbow while he did so. He muttered, "Just ask her."

They shared a quick look, and then Merlin retreated behind him again, out of sight. Arthur took a deep breath. _Right—no good reason to wait._ He turned to Annis, who had already been eyeing him, obviously caught on the thought that he was trying to pull from her. "We have left one thing unsaid."

She smiled, obviously amused. "Yes we have, Arthur Pendragon. Tell me, can you name it?"

Arthur's face was serious, and he replied, "The past." It was perfectly vague, but his expression was enough to hint that he was thinking of the king he had killed.

"The past," Annis confirmed. "Caerleon, killed leading a raiding party, decades after your father had led similar into our own lands."

"I regret—" he started, but Annis did not appear to care for words that offered nothing new.

She cut him off. "You are not your father's son, are you?"

Arthur leaned away, unable to answer the question. He wanted to be a son that his father could be proud of, but he also didn't believe in everything his father had stood for.

"The Druids would flee into our borders, and he would come hunting them. Luckily for you, we didn't kill him then, as was our right."

Arthur furrowed his brow, intent on holding back any comments that would ruin their alliance. A trio of servants filed in to begin ladling vegetable and pork soup into the bowls of the many nobles, and Annis continued into Arthur's silence.

"Now you turn that on its head, and bring the Druids back in. I'll ask what has been on everyone's mind, since the lands heard of Camelot's acceptance of the Druids." She turned to him, eyes flashing. "Just how many of Uther's laws are you planning to overturn? Or is this a ploy—one last feint against the Druids before they are finally exterminated?"

Arthur took a drawn out sip of his wine, and he used the time to find a way to reflect how he felt. "It was unjust to banish a peaceful peoples, and I will change any law if it is unjust."

Annis eyed him for a long moment, but a small touch of a smile on her lips let him think he had said the right thing. Perhaps her hard won respect was not so far off—

"I'm coming!"

From a servant's passageway at their backs he heard a familiar, feminine voice shout, and it effectively halted their conversation. He turned, body already tensing for what some subconscious part of him knew would happen.

The servant girl, the strange one from his chambers, came barreling around the corner with a laden pot, steaming with soup. "I'm here, don't worry!" She shouted and smiled, and in her distraction her foot caught the hem of her dress, her eyes widened and connected with Merlin's, and then the pot went flying from her hands.

Arthur thrust an arm over Guinevere's head, trying to shield her. Merlin dove to catch the servant girl's elbows, preventing her from completely falling on her face, but put himself in the path of the falling soup. A moment later, and he was covered from shoulder to hip in the scalding liquid.

It was _hysterical,_ and Arthur almost burst with laughter until he caught the stormy expression on Annis' face. Merlin dropped the servant girl's arms, squeezed his eyes shut, and began flapping at his tunic, sending vegetables and dumplings flying across the room as he hissed. One of them hit Annis in the nose.

Worse still, his manservant was flashing his entire torso to the Queen of Caerleon and her entire court. He launched himself forward.

* * *

Arthur's fist grasped his forearm, and its iron strength and made it clear that he was embarrassing both himself and his king. Merlin whined plaintively, uncaring. It burned, for spirits sake.

Annis turned slowly in her chair and fixed her glare on Ari, who quailed. "What's your name, girl?"

Ari mumbled something under her breath, so quietly that even Merlin couldn't hear despite standing right next to her.

Annis grew impatient. "Speak up next time. Own your failure, or you will never earn your successes." She turned away with a sneer of obvious distaste for the downtrodden kitchen-scullion, and waved a more put-together servant closer. "Fetch another round of soup for the high table."

Gwen gave Merlin an apologetic look, where he was still flinching with a pained hunch. Without turning back Annis ordered Ari disdainfully, "Take King Arthur's Fool to the seamstress. You certainly won't be returning to serve the feast."

Ari's lower lip began to quiver, and Merlin tugged her away, not wanting to see her further embarrassed despite the steam rising from his shoulders. They barely made it through the servants' passage before she had burst into tears.

She threw herself into Merlin's arms, then jerked back when her face felt the wet slop covering him. She sniffled. "Oh, Merlin, I've failed again. I'm horrid at all of these jobs. Hilda is sure to fire me—"

"You make a great scullion," he tried, "And you shouldn't cry over a little spilled soup. I've done much worse and Arthur still hasn't chopped my head off."

The levity helped, and she hiccuped, which made a flimsy smile flicker on her face.

"One time," he said, carefully reaching down and beginning to flap his tunic again, "I fell asleep while supper was being served, and I ruined Morgana's gown when I tipped the decanter all over the floor." Ari's smile began to stabilize. "Uther was furious. I was in the stocks for days, and I only escaped when Arthur finally admitted my face after was the funniest thing he'd seen all year."

Ari giggled and rubbed at the last tears in her eyes. "Oh dear, Merlin. I've ruined your clothes."

"True," he smiled, "but they aren't so important."

She huffed, "You certainly can't be seen dressed like that. The Queen agrees. You must be taken to the high seamstress immediately."

"I don't think she meant her personal—" Merlin stuttered, but Ari had already grabbed his arm and dragged him away.

She led him through the noble's halls, and really, if he hadn't guessed it already, her wavy, dark brown hair that hung in streams down her back should have been enough proof.

Ari burst into a small room in the citadel, surprising an old woman who had begun to doze at her desk. "Annis requires a new tunic for King Arthur's manservant!"

Her announcement, and the carrots still sticking to Merlin's clothes, pushed the old seamstress to her feet. He was shirtless before he even had a chance to argue, and she had a length of string about his chest, measuring his size, before he quite realized her intentions.

"A regular sack will do just fine," he said abashedly.

The seamstress scoffed. "The Queen would not accept looking so poor. We can surely afford a better gift."

"It's not quite a gift, per say," Merlin tried, but the seamstress ignored him as she swiftly measured his bicep, the length of his arm, and then his waist.

"One hour," she said, and disappeared into the back.

Merlin wavered a bit awkwardly, and then glanced at Ari who still stood nearby. He studied her closer, now that he knew who she was.

She too had a cord that hung round her neck and disappeared into the neckline of her peasant's dress. She looked a little surprised, but didn't stop him as he drew it out. Here was a second dragon scale necklace with a golden ring hanging in place of a medallion, marking the existence of a once noble house come to ruin.

"I know your brother," Merlin stated, once he'd allowed the chord to fall back against her breast.

"Oh," she said tightly, turning her head away. "And how is he?"

"He's doing well for himself," Merlin replied, remaining vague for Gwaine's sake.

Ari's face pinched, and in a manner unlike the girl he had barely gotten to know, she said darkly, "Can't say I'm happy to hear it."

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) A citadel would be the core fortified area of a city, usually the strongest part of the system, and also a name for the third part of a castle, with higher walls than the rest. It's the last line of defense before the keep itself. A keep is a type of fortified tower built at the center of a castle.  
(2) Caerleon's castle is based on images from the show.  
(3) The knights talk about The Poisoned Chalice, from S1E4. Nimueh puts poison in the chalice, tells Merlin that Bayard's done it, and then Merlin bursts in to the throne room and is forced to drink it. Cue famous Arthur follows a magical blue light scene.  
(4) Annis, Arthur, and Merlin are all referencing different parts of His Father's Son, S4E5, where Agravaine convinces Arthur to behead Caerleon for leading raids on Camelot's lands. Morgana gets Annis' ear, and Annis declares war. Arthur sneaks into Annis' camp to request trial by single-combat. Eventually he fights Derian and wins, after we get through some magical trickery from Morgana and Merlin. Annis stays true to her word, and leaves, while kicking Morgana to the curb.  
(5) Annis calls Merlin Arthur's "Fool" in Arthur's Bane Part 1, S5E1, and I thought it was funny so I used it again.

 **Author's Note:**

Lot of editing involved this round, thanks very much to Linorien for being the first set of eyes and telling me when things got boring, and giving me some ideas to liven things up. Also, Jewels got me watching The Living and The Dead (Colin's new show) and of course I had to throw in a shirtless scene because of it... Also, thanks to her life for helping to inspire Ari's dishes scene. And of course, you reviewers make my day and my week and this story so much better. Thank you all, and PMs inbound!

I'm glad everyone enjoyed Gwen and Merlin dancing! It felt wonderful to give him a bit of happiness. A little bit more of the original trio hanging out in their chambers this time, and I love writing them together. It was fun these past two chapters. But Gwen's going to backup from the story for a bit, sorry Gwen!

I do feel bad for Gwaine. I don't think he knows everything yet, and he can probably tell that Merlin is holding something back. Let's see how things go between them next chapter, when they get a chance to talk again.

Oh, and I hope you didn't mind Ari. I think Gwaine keeping his family, and his nobility, secret from Arthur and the knights is an important point to remember about his character. In one way he can relate to Merlin's secret keeping, and in another way, it prevents him from being able to make a watertight argument for Merlin coming clean to Arthur.

 **Next time:** Tramp Stamps.


	4. Tramp Stamps

**Tramp Stamps  
** _The Nones of October_

 _Dearest Gaius,_

 _It was wonderful to hear from you. I find your news very distracting, and I appreciate how delicately you are proceeding. I could not have trusted my scatterbrained son with a more dependable uncle._

 _As I sit at my table enjoying this cool morning's sunshine, I can't help but recall a similar day, and some similar news, that I received many years ago. My little Merlin had come running into my hut with Will on his heels, both boys grinning ear to ear and just about giving me a heart attack. But Merlin finally had a true friend after years of hesitation. He was so happy that I could not condemn him. More than his safety, I have always wished for his happiness._

 _He has not written for months, and it is unlike him. How is he Gaius, truly? Is he well?_

* * *

Gwaine trotted to his bunk in the barracks with a grin so wide it was halfway to dangerous.

He had just stopped to search out a spare detail, and now he couldn't get to his travel pack fast enough. Percival was already there when he arrived, folding his red cloak. "Where have you been?"

"Library," Gwaine said with a grin, flinging open his small cabinet door. The smell of old sweat wafted out, but he ignored it to tug out his pack, untying the strings that held it together as nimbly as he was able.

"Reading again?" Percival replied with a hint of disbelief.

"Do I not seem like the studious type to you?" Gwaine scoffed, finally releasing the cover of his pack and digging his hand within. He pulled out a thin, leather-bound volume, and Percival's eyes tracked it with amusement.

"You didn't have that when we left Camelot."

"Aye," Gwaine said, "I borrowed it from Bayard's historian."

Percival chuckled. "I'm fairly certain that would more accurately be called pilfering."

"Bayard's promised to visit in the spring; I'll just slip it back to him then." Gwaine grinned and cracked it open, the papers crinkling as he passed through them quickly, looking for something in particular.

Percival leaned over and peered at the book's title, mouthing out the words. "Can I ask what's got you so interested in history?"

"I was just thinking about when we were in the Perilous Lands," Gwaine said flippantly, referring to Arthur's 'solo' quest during Uther's reign. He'd told his part of the story plenty of times by this point, with increasing amounts of exaggeration, and so Percival cut him off.

"You're finally finding some facts for one of your bar stories," he teased with a grin, "instead of actually joining me and the boys at the tavern? Does that book also mention if the moon will be blue tonight?"

"Har," Gwaine replied, nose buried between the pages, and uncharacteristically remaining seated despite the invitation to enjoy an evening off duty with a brawl or a wench. "Have you seen Merlin?"

"I invited him," Percival answered, misunderstanding why Gwaine asked. "But he says he'd tied up cleaning the stables all afternoon."

This caused Gwaine to look up. Mucking the stables was not one of Merlin's usual chores, and usually denoted a run in with trouble. "What did he do?"

"To hear Arthur tell it, apparently got away with too much luck after stripping half naked in Annis' Great Hall."

Gwaine snapped the book closed and pushed it back into his pack, and then put both away. "So I'll find him in the stables." He'd air out his traveling clothes later.

He was halfway out the door before Percival said, "Should I get you a pint?"

"Nah," Gwaine said, restlessly shifting his weight as he leaned back in, "but save me a seat."

He bound out and the smirk stole across his face again. Merlin was going to get it this time. He wouldn't be able to avoid answering this.

Gwaine swept past the training green and the cavalry's huts, heading quickly for the royal stables. He didn't hear the voices that would have warned him of a conversation, and instead jumped into the open doorway shouting, "Hallo, milord!"

Merlin jerked up so quickly that his head cracked against the wood of one of the stall doors, and Gwaine caught sight of the king behind him, now staring at Gwaine while obviously perturbed. "It's 'sire'," Arthur corrected. "Though I suppose 'milord' is still better than 'princess'."

"Oh, you wonderfully oblivious man," Gwaine said jovially, and enjoyed the slow expansion of Merlin's eyes as he realized that Gwaine _knew._ Gwaine smiled at his king, eager to be rid of him in order to interrogate Merlin in peace. "Gwen's looking for you."

Arthur frowned, "What for? I just saw her."

Gwaine's smile stretched wider, the full force of his charm resting its weight behind his next white lie, "She says it's important."

Arthur sighed and walked past a shirtless Merlin, whom was still rubbing at the growing lump on his skull. "If I return and find out you're both at the tavern, I'm going to wring your neck, Merlin."

Merlin made a rude gesture at the king's back, and then grew increasingly agitated as Gwaine remained silent and watchful. He tried to play dumb. "What?"

Gwaine decided to take his time with it, torture his friend a little for all the work he had to do to find out the truth. "What's a lord like you doing cleaning horse shit?"

Merlin flushed. "I'm not a lord." He pushed his pitchfork into a pile of used hay and shoveled it into a wheelbarrow he was slowly filling.

"Oh, yes you are," Gwaine said, still not rolling over despite Merlin's need to always deny him. "You controlled the wyverns at the Fisher King's castle."

Merlin tossed another bundle of hay. "How do you figure that?"

"They didn't come back when we were leaving the castle, and it wasn't just because I stabbed one. I lost sight of you plenty of times that day." Gwaine threw his hands up, getting frustrated. "Just admit it!"

"I did tell them to stop attacking—"

"Lord of the Dragons!" Gwaine interjected, shouting loudly. "Didn't trust me enough to tell me, huh?"

Merlin shushed him angrily. "Seriously?"

"Can you control _all_ lizards or just those with dragon blood?" It came out more sarcastic than enthusiastic, and he might have apologized if Merlin hadn't scowled.

"Gwaine, _be quiet."_

He followed as Merlin threw his pitchfork onto the load and heaved the wheelbarrow outside. Merlin's eyes were tracking for any bystanders in the vicinity, but Gwaine waved him off. "There's no one around. But even if Arthur were still here, he wouldn't believe your dark secret is that you've been a dragonlord for years. Trust me, _mate_ , it's the sort of thing you need to see with your own eyes."

"That doesn't mean you need to be so cavalier about it," Merlin said with gritted teeth and tipped the hay into a nearby compost pile.

"I do if it's the first proof I have that you've used that lording ability to help us," Gwaine said back with a hint of a bite. Partially he realized this had become an argument, but didn't care enough to stop it. This had been awhile coming.

"That was years ago. My loyalties could have turned by now," Merlin muttered. "So fie on your proof, if that's what you've really been looking for with all these questions."

"I'm your friend," Gwaine said angrily, "but I had to sneak around Mercia and Camelot, and I had to lie to Percival, just to find out what you should have told me weeks ago."

They had arrived at a pile of bound hay hidden from rainstorms in a small stone granary. Merlin lifted a bale and threw it into the wagon. "Just say it, Gwaine. I know you have to."

"Haven't I proven myself to you yet? I want to know why you always default to lying to me."

A shadow crossed Merlin's face. "I'm lying because you don't trust me."

The comment surprised him, and Gwaine drew his head back. Merlin—the _other_ Merlin—focused intently on him, the powerful glint in his eye. Gwaine answered as best he could. "It's you who doesn't trust me. I already know you've proven your loyalty to Arthur more than once…."

"And yet you're afraid to ask me the most important questions," Merlin said darkly.

"Because I don't want to treat my best mate like a criminal," he snapped back.

"I am a criminal," Merlin swiftly replied.

The breeze carried the giggle of two girls, and from Gwaine's periphery he saw two handmaidens veering slightly to eye them both and whisper behind their hands. Merlin turned to the wagon and hefted it into his hands, trundling it back for the stables.

"If you don't ask," Merlin said, once he'd reached the safety of the structure, "then I can never answer. You'll never know if you can trust me, and I'll never know if you ever could."

Merlin glanced at him once before beginning to shovel hay back into the stalls. Gwaine leaned back onto one of the walls and studied his friend with a stormy expression. Merlin was right, in a way. He was being a tad fatalistic, but he had hit on the truth. Things had been awkward between them, and his thoughts on Merlin had been suspicious ones, and that would not stop until they both put all their cards on the table.

"Let's get this out of the way then," Gwaine said, when Merlin next returned to the wheelbarrow. "As a knight of this kingdom, I'm asking you: Have you ever done something for the dragons that wasn't to Camelot's best interests?"

An unreadable expression flit across his face, but Merlin stood tall and spoke plainly. "Yes," he replied, with no explanation.

That shook Gwaine, but he continued. "Then, as your friend: If you weren't their lord, would you still consider the dragons our allies?"

Merlin sighed, and he seemed to forget the pitchfork in his hands and the smell of the horses around them. His look was far away and pained. "I don't think so."

Gwaine's heart thudded in his chest, and he could hardly swallow until Merlin continued, whispering seemingly to his own self. "But in the end, regardless of what that means for their lives or my own, I'll defend Arthur. I always have, and I always will."

* * *

 _I know how he can be. He puts the world on his shoulders and chooses to carry the burden of everyone's troubles alone. Be more than his guidance, Gaius, please. Let him have the support that he will never ask for._

 _You must tell him that I, and all of Ealdor, are doing more than well. We have surpluses that we could not have dreamed of after the doubling of our new year's hearth tax. Our purses are full, the ground is fertile, and the food is bountiful._

 _I can only imagine what may have caused our luck._

* * *

Merlin pushed the brush through the mane of Gwen's mare, watching the glossy hair ripple. Gwaine had stood there, mulling over all of his unbalancing truths, for a long period now. He'd had time to break apart the bale and spread the hay around the royal's stables, and now he'd taken to grooming, and offering Arthur's ever-eager stallion a lick of sugar while he waited for Gwaine to react.

His friend, or once-friend, was studying him with nearly unblinking eyes. Even though he had done nothing worth watching, he kept quiet and let Gwaine have the time he needed. It was nerve-wracking, but necessary.

"Can I ask one more thing?"

He paused with his hand halfway through the horse's mane. Gwaine was looking at him curiously, but warily. "Yeah," Merlin replied with trepidation.

Gwaine drew himself taller. "What would you have done if I had gone and turned you in?"

He went back to brushing the horse, eyes fixedly on the mare's mane and back. It was too hard to look at Gwaine. "I've had years to find an answer to that," he started. "But it all depends on how Arthur reacts."

"If I'm going to be really honest," Gwaine said, his voice thick with emotion, "I think Arthur would be furious you lied to him, and he would feel like he never knew you, and he wouldn't know what to say."

That hurt, but Gwaine's hurt was more apparent. He hoped his smile was more friendly than grimace. "Are you talking about Arthur or yourself?"

Gwaine shrugged and strode forward, crossing his arms on the stall's doors and resting his head on his forearm. "Both."

His friend was looking at him without accusation, and it brought a fresh wave of guilt. He didn't deserve this much forgiveness. "I'm sorry I kept things from you. I hate keeping these secrets from everyone."

"Then why not just tell Arthur? The longer you wait the worse it will be."

He looked away, "I can't."

It was silent for a few moments longer, and the knight seemed to realize that Merlin would not be elaborating. "So I've decided that despite everything you've said, I'm not going to tell the others. You were my first mate, and you're still the same guy that pulled me out of a tavern brawl and reminded me there were useful things I could do with my life. You're the first person I ever really trusted, and I don't regret it."

Merlin smiled softly, so relieved that he nearly fell over. "If there was anyone who was going to find out, Gwaine, I'm glad it was you."

Gwaine shuffled, and Gwen's mare nickered and nibbled at his ear. "So do we hug now or what?"

He barked out a laugh and then looked down at his own sweaty chest. "Probably not a good idea when I smell like horse dung."

"I haven't bathed in a week," Gwaine remarked with a grin, then interjected suddenly, "and that's the strangest mace scar I've ever seen."

He was pointing at the center of Merlin's chest, where a large and ragged circle stood pale over his heart, and Gwaine was referencing the mace that had struck him last year before he'd been kidnapped by Morgana. He worded his explanation carefully, but made sure to speak honestly, Gwaine deserved that now. "A sorceress threw a ball of flame at me, near when I first came to Camelot. Arthur doesn't know so—"

"I get it, assume Arthur is oblivious to everything. I've figured that by now." By this point, Gwen's horse was looking more than well-kept, and Merlin put the brush half into his pocket and leaned his shoulder against the wall. Gwaine had quirked a brow. "Tell me about the others."

Merlin frowned, but looked down at his bare chest again. He ran a hand down his arm, tracing the still-healing red welt to his cotton-wrapped finger, "Tortured by one of the Sarrum's dancers. She thought I was a spy and a liar." He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, where Gwaine must have seen a star-shaped discoloration on his lower back. "Serket sting. Morgause caught me following her, but Kilgharrah was able to save me." Merlin shrugged, "The rest," which were small nicks not unlike the myriad Gwaine himself had, "just random things over the years. I couldn't tell you."

Gwaine's face flickered with a series of questions, but he finally settled on, "How have you not told these stories at a tavern?"

A hint of a smile touched Merlin's lips. "The same way you never mentioned just quite how high-blooded you really are."

He took an unwarranted pleasure in watching Gwaine pale at his own untruths. Merlin knew Gwaine hadn't been back to Caerleon in years, and hadn't communicated with his former family for more. "How did you find out?"

"I met your sister—Ari."

"Arianne," Gwaine said, correcting him. "Our parents named her after the queen. She was one of the many babies born nine months after the wedding feast." Wistfully he added, "Ari the Airhead," then shook himself from whatever he'd been thinking. "So she's doing well?"

"She's failing miserably at being a kitchen scullion," Merlin said with amusement. "I spoke with her awhile. You're not one of her favorite people right now."

"That's no surprise," Gwaine said, but offered no explanation. Merlin supposed he deserved that.

"She took me to visit your manor. It's empty, Gwaine, except for your mother, who spends all day lying in bed."

They would never have the money to keep up that huge manor, not even with his knight's salary, and a scowl grew on Gwaine's face, belying his frustration. "Why she's refused to give that place up still makes no rational sense." He spit, "It looks like she still hasn't come to terms with her reduction in status."

Merlin sighed, being careful with the subject. He knew Gwaine was adamant about people proving themselves and not earning anything from title alone. However, he would have done anything to spend an extra day with his own father, and Gwaine had a family that could disappear at any moment. "They're your family, Gwaine. And Ari is on her own trying to keep your mother alive, and keep that place from crumbling." He thought back to Ari's anger and the mother's waiflike nonexistence. "They both still believe you're the head of that household."

Gwaine snarled. "Well, I'm not. I owe nothing to the old nobles of Caerleon, whether they're my blood or not."

After that sharpened comment, Merlin chose to let it go. He smiled in that way that turned his eyes into half-moons, and pushed past Gwaine into the main walkway of the stables. He reached an arm up and pulled his fancy blue tunic from the rafters.

It was much too clean to slip over his own stink. Here was the problem of getting a custom, well-made outfit from Annis' court seamstress: as a servant, he'd never be able to actually wear it. "I saw Gwen sending a letter to Gawant by way of a caravan. There are many traveling merchants in Camelot currently, reaping what this year has sown."

Gwaine rolled his eyes. "I see what you're doing, mate, and it's not going to work." Disgruntled, he continued, "I'm not writing her. I'm going to go to the tavern, and I'm having a pint with Percival."

"No invitation for me?" Merlin said cheekily.

Gwaine looked surprised to see such a friendly comment leave his mouth, and the knight noticeably brightened. He grinned widely. "Not until you put some clothes on. I'd like the barwench to pay attention to me."

Merlin chuckled. "You're right that my stench would be too distracting. I'd probably turn everyone's stomachs."

Gwaine snorted and sarcastically quipped, "Yeah, and those handmaidens took the long way to town just to enjoy the _weather_."

* * *

Merlin made it back to Gaius' chambers and heaved a long sigh, smiling despite the ache in his muscles. Gwaine hadn't rejected him, and even though the knight didn't yet know even a fraction of the truth, he'd find a way to tell him. If Gwaine could forgive him his years of secrets, and accept that he had done much more than befriend some dragons, surely they could find some common ground on his magic.

With a yank of a golden thread he pulled an empty basin towards him, and _brimstréam_ was enough to fill it with a stream of cold water. He tossed his barely worn tunic onto the table and dunked a washcloth into the barrel's depths.

As he scrubbed at his skin, his eyes caught his ruined tunic laying over the open windowsill. He had tried to scrub out the stains of soup with a wirebrush, but they were too inset. He was lucky to have received a replacement from Annis' seamstress.

He smirked to himself, Arthur's expression when he'd returned to the guest chambers that evening had been worth mucking the stables.

But on the subject of new clothes, he was going to need a new alter-ego, and a new outfit to go along with it. While Dragoon as Emrys could technically search out the Leshy and Morgana, it probably wouldn't turn out so well for the forest clearing. One angry _forbærne_ and he'd have a problem on his hands.

Thinking, he ducked his head into the basin and tried to scrub some of the grime from his hair. He sat up with a gasp a minute later with water running down his face, and a piece of hay stuck to his cheek. He must have had it sticking out of his hair this entire time—great.

Maybe he should approach her as a priestess of the old religion, or a sorceress at least. Glamouring as female hasn't worked out so great the first time, but perhaps this time he would be luckier. Though, he wasn't eager to be an attractive female again. Just imagine the horror that would ensue if Gwaine saw him.

So an old woman then. He'd need a gown. Maybe he could alter one of Gaius' robes? That would be a lot of work, and he had never claimed to be much of a seamster.

But then again, there was always magic.

He glanced towards the door and, when he heard no one approaching, shut and barred it with a flicker of gold. Then, while remaining seated, he yanked the loose floorboard aside and floated his spell book until it hovered before his eyes.

He ducked the washcloth back into the water and smiled. This might actually be a little fun.

* * *

 _I know what the other villagers have surmised._

 _They think Morgause lay a curse when Cenred lost the war, and they believe we have at long last escaped from under its web._

 _In that respect, Gaius, things are not well. Whenever travelers pass through this small farming village, they bring sour rumors that the troubles of Essetir began with Morgause, and will end when magic is completely pushed from these borders. When our lord comes to inspect our lands, he's quick to remind us why he was forced to increase our taxes._

 _We were not once a hateful people, but now many friends laugh at the news that the king of Camelot has opened his borders to the Druids. I have heard some say that the loss of the Druids from our nearby forests and the proliferation of our fields only validates what poison they truly were._

 _Tell your king to be wary, Gaius. There are many who would enjoy to see him proved wrong._

A fist collided with the thin wood of Hunith's door and she looked up, startled.

"Open up!" A deep voice called. "King's orders!"

Hunith gulped, and tucked the letter into her bodice with quick movements. The still-wet ink smudged, and she rubbed the black stains from her fingers on her coarse apron. "Coming, milord."

She opened the door and two large brutes in the burnt orange cloaks of King Lot bent their thick necks and skimmed her face with boredom. The shorter one held out a metal box that clinked with coin. The other had his hand on his sword, ready for some smart comment to give him something to do.

"Extra ha'penny this harvest," he said, shaking the box.

"What for?" She asked proudly, and tilted back as he leaned half through the door, encroaching on her space.

"King's orders," the large one repeated.

"Now, now," the smaller one said. "This matron isn't a threat. She's only asked a question. In fact, I'm sure she'll be happy to spare more than a halfpenny when she hears the news."

The larger one moved away and Hunith gripped the doorframe, careful not to move too abruptly, lest her hidden letter crinkle. The smaller one's lips stretched wide in what she belatedly realized was supposed to be a smile.

"Swords are expensive," he said with a growing, sickening pleasure, "and, rumor has it, Lot has finally decided to do something about the _infestation."_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Merlin made a deal with the Leshy - a companion in return for a year of the best growing season Ealdor has ever had (P1: Lucky Charms). Gives him Morgana as a companion (P1: Centuries). Hunith doesn't know the specifics, but surely suspects Merlin had a hand in their good growing season. The other villagers of course wouldn't know what caused it.  
(2) Lord Urien is the lord of Ealdor. Meet him in P1 Lucky Charms and P1 Itsy Bitsy Spiders.  
(3) Lot is the king of Essetir. In canon, he was only mentioned as a man who put his enemy's heads on spikes.  
(4) Merlin mentions being tortured by the Sarrum's dancer (P1 Two Can Keep A Secret).  
(5) Gwaine mentions the Perilous Lands, the quest which sent them there had Gwaine and Merlin fighting off some wyverns while finding Arthur in the Fisher King's castle. Merlin slipped away to order the wyverns away.  
(6) Again, just in case, King Bayard is the king of Mercia.

 **Author's Note:**

Had a blast finally getting my version of a scarfic in. Initially I wanted Arthur and Merlin to have the discussion, but then I realized that Arthur probably has already seen the scars. Why wouldn't he have? Merlin must have bent down at least once over the years, and Arthur could have seen the serket scar. And, if he did ask about it, Merlin could explain it away easily. 'Farming accident while I was a child' or 'Kicked by a horse' or really anything that Arthur couldn't readily dispute, unless serket stings are extremely unique. So, Gwaine got to have the discussion instead, and I enjoyed it greatly.

Gwaine's feelings on his family interest me greatly. Love his quip 'Ari the Airhead'. I didn't think of it, Gwaine did. Let's see if or how he deals with his family going forward.

Also, of course, very happy to have Gwaine and Merlin on steadier ground, it's only going to get better I think...

Finally, thank you all for the reviews! I got my 200th review on Year for Secrets this week, and, man, was that a great feeling. PMs inbound for all of you, and a wink for SpangleyPony who mentioned last chapter that Ari should have noticed Merlin's serket sting scar. You read my mind! Jewels, didn't talk to you much this week, but shirtless Merlin is certainly a direct result of the Living and the Dead (please no spoilers anyone, I'm only on episode 2!), and Linorien, you made me feel great about this chapter; you are a fantastic beta!

 **Next Time:** Hell Hath Plenty of Fury.


	5. Hell Hath Plenty of Fury

—

 **Hell Hath Plenty of Fury  
** _The Ides of October_

" _Emrys—"_

Merlin looked up, the voice breaking him from his concentration. His eyes swept Gaius' empty chambers as he tried fruitlessly to pinpoint its origin. He pushed aside his empty lunch bowl, puzzling over the sound as it echoed dimly in his mind, fading away.

It was certainly odd, and it left his instincts tingling. Just in case, he pointed a finger at his tunic and unraveled the glamour spell, which had previously turned the cloth from blue into black. He was having a difficult time mastering this particular spell, and had taken to practicing whenever he could steal a moment away. Strangely enough, the issue wasn't that it was too complex—in fact, it was likely too simple. Without much effort, he kept accidentally magiking his clothes invisible.

As things stood, his disguise might not turn out so well if he needed an impromptu wardrobe change.

The voice came again, and this time Merlin stood and moved for the entrance. While it was still weak, it was louder, which meant whoever was sending it was getting closer. His hand was halfway to the knob when the door blew open, and Elyan burst in carrying an old woman with badly burned legs. Frenzied, he asked, "Can you help her?"

Merlin leapt into action, quickly sweeping clean the spare cot and ushering Elyan forward. "What happened?"

"I don't know," Elyan said, stepping back as Merlin pushed past him for the jar of balsam resin and a bundle of bandages. "We found her face down in the forest." Elyan, obviously worried, was pressed into the wall as Merlin moved past again, now fully focused on the elder woman. Her dress had charred to the knees, and bits of darkened fabric had clung to the red blisters on her shins.

Her eyes were cracked open, and this time when she said " _Emrys,"_ Merlin heard her clearly, if only in his mind.

His gaze connected with hers and immediately he knew. These burns were no accident. This was the work of a concentrated inferno, and this elder witch had lived the terrible moment every magic user feared. She was weak not just from pain, she had used more than all her strength to escape the pyre.

Merlin paused in his rush to help her, and sent whatever comfort he could through their magical link, and his hand wrapped around hers. Feebly she reached up, fingers tickling at a cord around her neck, and he gave her a subtle nod. Whatever it was, he'd find a way to take care of it.

And then her body went slack. Her eyelids drooped, her arm flopped onto her stomach, and her jaw fell open.

The bitter smell of death filled the air, but that wasn't what brought the tears to his eyes.

* * *

Arthur stood on the open-air balcony of his Solar, staring blankly toward the training green below. The lawn had steadily emptied as evening rapidly grew nearer, but he hardly noticed the changes. His mouth was tilted down in a frown, and his eyes were glazed.

Guinevere, dressed in a beautiful maroon, wrapped her arms around his shoulders and hugged him from behind. "What is troubling you, Arthur?"

His frown deepened. "I don't feel like celebrating."

"It's the anniversary of the day of your birth," Guinevere propped her chin on his shoulder and softly said, "allow us to celebrate the fair and just king we are so thankful to have received."

"It is also the anniversary of my coronation," it went unsaid that this night one wheel ago he had held his fatally-wounded father in his arms, "I miss him." To the wind he whispered, "There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think of him."

Guinevere sighed, and then she nuzzled into the space under his ear. "He built this kingdom for you," she murmured quietly, "and every day it loves you more."

A faint knock from the lower chambers distracted them, and they both looked to the spiral stair. Whoever was calling knocked again with a rapid _tap-tap_ , and Arthur led them down into their bedroom, curious now. Moments later Merlin opened the door anyways, and Arthur was so surprised he blurted, "You knocked?"

After hearing his voice, Elyan poked his head in as well, and his presence explained the uncommon deference for the rules. Merlin slunk into a corner.

"We found a presumed witch severely injured in the forest," Elyan began, walking into the room and closing the ornate door behind him. "She was attacked, and Percival has gone to the nearby villages to find out why."

"Presumed?" Arthur's face hardened, and Elyan paused. The knight reached into his pocket and pulled out a horn that dangled from a weathered, beaten leather cord.

"She died soon after arriving in Camelot, but before she did, she reached for this." Elyan held it out, "Gaius said it was called…" he trailed off, looking to Merlin.

"The Horn of Cathbhadh," Merlin finished while Elyan nodded along. "Supposedly the priestesses used it for rituals in the old religion, but it disappeared during the Purge."

Arthur took it, holding the magical artifact warily away from his body. Strange symbols were carved onto the old bone, and its craftsmanship was impeccable. It was small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. "Would it have saved her?"

Elyan shook his head, but Merlin answered. "Gaius says it was used to call the dead."

"I see," Arthur said seriously, turning it over in his hands as his eyes went vacant again. He wondered what it meant to call the dead, and he wondered if you got to choose whom you called. "I can see why she was tempted to use it."

The group was silent until Guinevere made herself known with a hand on his elbow. "Perhaps it would be best kept in the vaults," she suggested.

"Yes," Arthur said, trying to hide his illegal intrigue. The laws were his own to uphold, yet he was always willing to throw them aside in cases that benefited himself. That was wrong. "I'll take it myself," he said to the room, putting the horn in his own pocket. And then, because everyone was looking to him, he said, "Elyan, have you reported this to Leon?" When his brother-in-law shook his head Arthur explained, "We can't have our citizens taking the law into their own hands. It's a steep slope to anarchy. Leon will have to ask the knights if they've heard of any further unrest during patrols."

Elyan nodded, accepting his orders. Guinevere's eyes flickered between Arthur and Merlin, and she seamlessly found an excuse to leave with her brother. Hopefully she knew he would never have lied in her presence, but, then again, she could always tell when he needed some space to think.

When they were alone, Merlin said, voice with the tone of a warning despite his efforts to hide it, "Arthur…."

"What?"

"It's dangerous if used incorrectly," he said carefully, obviously referencing the horn now hidden in his trousers. "If you're thinking about using it—"

Arthur cut him off. "I'm not."

"Let me finish," Merlin said with a sigh. "Because I know you. If you're thinking about using it, don't go alone."

Arthur frowned, wanting to believe he wouldn't be tempted, but knowing he already was. Guiltily, he looked to Merlin. "I'll tell you if I change my mind."

Merlin seemed to accept that for now, and Arthur changed the topic away before Merlin could demand more. "What do you know about the sorceress?"

Merlin's face did something strange, "I think she was innocent of everything except for having magic."

Arthur looked carefully at his friend. Merlin was so hard to read sometimes. But if what he said were true, then this also was true: the dead woman was no different than many of the Druids already living within his borders—druids he knew were peaceful and had promised to defend.

That was too much to deal with right now, though, especially when he'd spent an afternoon remembering the hopelessness he'd felt while watching his father die from Dragoon's false healing spell. He sighed, doing his best to shake it off. "Can you go grab my crown? We've got to get to the feast."

* * *

The Great Hall's evening decorations did not reflect the dour mood that had overtaken most of the day that had preceded it.

Arthur made a pleasant speech, not one for the history books, but he had hit the notes expected of him, and it seemed to please both the nobles and the serving staff. The long tables of the Hall were filled with many walks of life, from the raucous knights to the simpering ladies of the court, and they clapped and cheered and laughed together as the celebration continued. Miri winked at him from across the room, where she was serving Mistress Vanora, and Merlin waved with his jug of watered down wine. Everyone appeared to be enjoying themselves.

Not long into the main course things became less structured, as was usual during celebrations, and Merlin gave up tending servilely to the king and queen. He was just putting down the jug and grabbing a bite to eat himself when cold metal tapped against the back of his neck.

He jolted and whirled, scowling at a grinning Gwaine who held up a mostly empty tankard of ale. Despite the state of the mug, and the happiness of his friend, the red blush of true drunkenness had not appeared on Gwaine's cheeks.

"Tell me a story," Gwaine said immediately, shoving some space for them on a bench, "one with princesses and dragons." He chortled at his own joke.

Merlin quirked a smile, "I don't have any quite like that."

Gwaine snorted in good humour. " _Sure,"_ he drawled. "Did I ever tell you about the time I convinced a man he was colorblind?"

Merlin stuffed some bread in his mouth and delighted at the taste. "I remember you came out of it a few gold coins richer," he jumped, then, an old memory resurfacing in his mind. A slow grin spread on his face and he turned to Gwaine with a sneaky look in his eye. "You haven't heard about when a goblin got loose in the castle, have you?"

Gwaine quirked a brow, simultaneously looking around for a place he could get a refill. "Flatulence was rampant throughout the royal family...Uther went bald," Merlin continued throughout the lack of attention, grinning wider as Gwaine slowly forgot everything else around them until the knight stared at him wide-eyed, "Arthur was turned into a donkey—"

Gwaine slammed his empty goblet down on the wooden table, seizing Merlin by the shoulders, lost utterly in his own elation. "Tell me, _now!"_

The two men were soon oblivious to the party around them, and Gwen watched their heads, bent together with a fond smile on her face. At the head table there weren't many people to associate with, but she was happy to relax into her chair and enjoy the ambiance of the room.

Percival was absent—presumably spending the night at one of the nearby villages. Her brother looked like he was having a grand time listening as Sir Vidor held court over a group of knights, boisterous laughter rising from the group in occasional bursts. As Captain of the Guard, Leon was seated near her, but he appeared distracted by Arthur's disappearance, and was frowning at the door.

Gwen was less worried. True, Arthur had claimed to be visiting the outhouses, and it was also true that he had been gone now for much longer than normal, but she knew what he had truly slipped off to do. While most of Camelot was busy reveling in his crowning, he would use the distraction to visit the barrows. Arthur was not usually one to talk to headstones, but she was certain he just needed some time to be close to his father—or whatever Uther had been when he wasn't busy being bitter and rude.

The door to the Great Hall swung slowly open, and Leon perked up. No one passed through, however, and the grand wood continued steadily, dragging across the stone until it notched against the back wall.

Immediately the temperature dropped a few degrees, presumably as the heat built up from their bodies escaped into the cooler corridors of the castle. She rubbed a hand along the long sleeve of her gown.

The banners on the walls fluttered, rippling in an invisible wind, and then began to billow in sequence. Gwen exchanged a look with Leon, both eyeing the strange flutterings. Then she felt her suspicion collapse into dread as she realized that Arthur had not taken her advice. He had used the horn, and what was happening now may very well be a side effect of its magic. She gripped Leon's forearm. "Clear the room, Leon, and find Arthur."

A large _C-R-A-C-K,_ and Leon reacted quick enough to pull her away—the heavy wood of their table splintering and falling inward. Some of the others shouted in surprise, but their shouts turned to screams as the food before them upended itself, plates flying through the air to be dashed on the walls, and striking servants, nobles, and knights alike. "I'm fine, Leon, go!"

He gave her one concerned look, but nodded briskly. He leapt their broken table in a single bound, shouting orders at the knights and guards disciplined enough to listen for them. The feast became a throng of bodies as people began to stampede for the few doors. A chair flew over their heads, shattering into pieces from the force.

Despite it she stood strong, trying to find an oddity in the chaos. In case Arthur himself wasn't the source, there would be another, here, somewhere—

Her attention was pulled by the chandelier beginning to sway, the candles on its rims beginning to sputter and go out. The light threw shadows along the wall, and she saw through them as a servant girl tripped and fell, tangled in the clutter that now littered the floor. Above her one of the newer tapestries—a tasteful one that Gwen herself had picked out—began to creak warningly on its wooden beams.

Gwen rushed forward, picking up speed. Her own arms wrapped around the servant's, throwing them both out of the path of the heavy cloth and the thick pillar of wood that came crashing down only moments later.

The girl was so panicked that she could barely breathe, much less speak, and she tugged at Gwen's hand. She pulled them towards one of the servant passageways that Gwen knew led to the kitchens.

As they moved Gwen's eyes tracked the room again, now looking for familiar faces. She caught a flash of Merlin, and she raised an arm to catch his attention. His profile had stood out in the crowd, one of the few solitary figures, and he turned sharply when he saw her hand wave.

Obvious relief swept over him, and he was just reaching an arm out to her when his eyes widened. He yelled something in warning, and Gwen had a fraction of time for her stomach to clench, and then she felt pain bloom from the back of her skull to the tips of her nose.

She had one beat to feel the blood pounding through her veins, burning at her cheeks and brow, so consuming to her senses that she imagined she smelt the coppery tang of it, and then her eyes rolled to the back of her head.

She was unconscious before her knees even hit the ground.

* * *

Merlin bolted forward, heart in his throat, reaming himself out for letting Arthur and then Gwen out of his sight when he _knew_ that Arthur was going to use that horn. _Argh_ , he'd turned away from Gwen for only a _second_.

He slid into the space beside her, pushing aside the metal shield that had spun midair and careened for her head. He probed the back of her hair quickly, checking his fingers for blood, and was relieved to find none.

He bundled her into his arms, ducked his head, and muttered _scildan_ under his breath to protect them with an invisible shield of air as he hurried her into the relative safety of the hallway.

Though it _was_ quieter here, the ruckus in the Great Hall was noticeably dying down. He watched as the room cleared, and as the ghostly temper tantrum waned to only the rustle of the Pendragon banners and then silence. This would be the opportune moment to investigate what spirit or spirits may still be in there and banish them, but Gwen groaned in his arms, and Merlin decided that her safety was more important right now.

He took the main halls to the Physician's Chambers, hoping to catch Arthur roaming, but no such luck. _Gwen first,_ he reminded himself, _Arthur is fine. If he were hurt, the sigil would have triggered._ This was exactly what he made the halfpenny for, after all, to protect Arthur from afar through Excalibur's scabbard.

Merlin kicked open the door for the East Tower and took the steps two at a time, and then shoved his way into their chambers _._ Gaius was already there, patching up a young knight that had been gouged by a falling axe. The knight gaped at the queen in Merlin's arms, but Gaius took it in stride, tying off the wrapping with nimble fingers before turning sharply to spread open Gwen's eyelids.

"Is the queen alright?" The knight stammered.

"She'll be fine," Merlin said and then ordered, "Go tell Leon she's with us."

The knight nodded and hurried off while Merlin explained to Gaius how she'd been struck. "Grind me some mugwort," Gaius said, now probing at the back of Gwen's head. "There is some swelling. We need to get that down to see if you need to heal her."

Hopefully he wouldn't have to. He didn't want a trial run with a new healing spell to be on a head injury. Merlin grabbed a sprig of the thin-leaved plant from their window and set swiftly to chopping it. He only needed a few drops of oil to turn it into a paste, and he carried the concoction cupped in his hand back to Gwen.

Gaius moved aside when he passed by and then returned to the workshop table, pulling ingredients from all over while setting some water to boil. "Arthur used the horn, didn't he?"

"I think so," Merlin said. "Any idea what kind of spirit could have come through?"

"If Arthur didn't know what he was doing, then anything, but if he called someone specific…." Gaius stopped, and he and Merlin shared a look.

"It has to be Uther," Merlin said, spitting the words. "Only he would attack Gwen." He finished with the paste and rose to his full height, glaring. "I'm not going to let him hurt anyone else."

The sound of steps pounding in the hall, and then the physician's doors burst open for a third time that day. It was Gwaine, and he looked like he had been running. "Arthur's not in the castle," he said, the words leaving his mouth before he was even all the way in the room. "We don't know where he is." His eyes flickered to Gaius and the fully knocked-out queen, but they didn't stop him from asking, "Do you think Kilgharrah could find him?"

Merlin's features arranged into a steely resolve. "Probably," he said, "but I can do one better."

Gaius watched from his periphery, face creased with worry, as Merlin leaned his hip against the table and removed his boot. He held it over his open hand and shook a halfpenny into his palm. "What's that for?" the knight asked immediately.

"Gwaine," Merlin prepared, voice steady, "there are a few things that come hand-in-hand with being a dragonlord that I've been meaning to tell you about." He dropped his boot on the ground, slipping his foot back in while he eyed his friend. "Are you ready to hear this?"

"I've been ready," Gwaine replied. He moved from the doorway and let the heavy wood shut behind him. It was three steps until he stood before his friend.

Merlin stretched his hand out so the coin was positioned between them. Gaius was gripping the worktable with white knuckles, having completely given up the pretense of forming a draught for their patient, but Merlin ignored his mentor's fears. He lowered his lids and inhaled, _I'm ready_ _too._ "Then let's find Arthur."

When he opened his eyes, they burned a brilliant gold.

* * *

The clouds rolled onto the waxing moon, and a wave of darkness overtook Camelot's graveyard. Arthur stood in the shadowed grounds, oblivious to what had occurred in the Great Hall after he had blown the horn, and staring down at his father's grave.

At first he had berated himself for trusting a supposedly magical artifact to even work, and then he had condemned himself for using it in the first place. In the end, he regretted its failure and wished for a chance to speak one last time with the man who had loved him.

A chill touched his shoulder, and when he shivered and shifted, he caught a glimpse of the impossible. "Father?"

"My son," Uther said, bobbing slightly as his body floated. He glided to hover over his grave. "I have taken a closer look at our kingdom while I've had the chance."

Arthur brightened, "I hope I've made you proud; Camelot is prospering and there is a chance for peace in Albion. I think I'm close—"

"I do love you, Arthur, but you've been a naive idealist since your childhood. How can I be proud when I see countless common-born men serving in your ranks, Druids within our borders, and a _servant_ as a queen?" Uther glared, "You are destroying my legacy with these weak stances."

Arthur's breath caught in his throat. Surely he hadn't disappointed his father this drastically? Not when Camelot was safe? "Guinevere is a worthy queen. She is strong and wise beyond her years."

"She will never be respected!" Uther growled. "Her existence by your side weakens your rule. Your need to trust others and raise their standing to equal yours weakens it further. You will lose your kingdom unless you give that up." Uther spoke earnestly, his empty, cold hand touching him again. "It's not too late to change."

Aghast at the words coming from his father's mouth, Arthur fought back again, trying to convince him through reason. "I would rather not rule at all than rule alone. Together, everyone in the Round Table makes Camelot stronger because people believe in us, and because we believe in the strength of our people." Since when had his beliefs varied so drastically from his father's? He remembered disagreeing occasionally, but nothing quite like this. "I understand we have differences, but fairness and justice are as worthy of platforms to stand on as the spear against evils was yours. I don't want to rule through fear."

Uther sneered. "Fear is the only way to obtain respect. You are the defender of the realm, not its friendly uncle." His ghost began to retreat, eyeing the castle. "I didn't spend my life building this kingdom, earning our namesake, to have my own son destroy it." Dangerously, he muttered, "It is always better to rule alone."

The look in Uther's eye frightened Arthur in a way he had not been prepared for. "What have you done?" He asked, his hand gripping Excalibur. When Uther didn't answer he drew the sword, threatening his own blood once again—Morgana, Agravaine, and now his own father—as he defended those he had learned to love. " _What have you done?_ "

"You'll thank me later, when your rationality has returned." Uther snarled, his disdain palpable, and then he disappeared, fading into the darkness. "Rest now. I will take care of things in your stead, until you are better prepared to take my mantle."

"Father, _no_!" Arthur yelled, now wildly swinging Excalibur through the space his father had once stood in. "We can discuss this like men. Don't—" Something cold slithered into the back of his throat and he choked on it. It numbed his tongue, then his skin, and finally his brain. Weakened and lethargic, Arthur was forced to allow the blanket of sleep to smother him.

Almost instantly after Arthur's body crumpled, a wave of magic rippled through the barrows, powerful enough to tousle Arthur's golden hair and prickle even Uther's skin.

"You _monster,"_ a voice said from the black.

Wary, and focused on this new danger, Uther turned from his son to find this threat's source. He was no stranger to sorcerers, and he would defeat this one as he had many others. His body became corporeal again, and he used the imposing strength of this form to draw the evildoer towards him.

While he was distracted by the voice, the flash of a fast-moving sword came from behind him and Uther dodged by instinct, pushing with the energy imbued with his spirit. The knight that had held the sword tumbled to the ground, but the other voice came again, this time from much nearer. "You evil, self-centered _tyrant."_

Uther turned with a scowl to find a peasant boy glaring at him, with fury in his expression and magic in his eyes. _Arthur's manservant,_ he remembered vaguely, _Gaius' boy._ "A sorcerer, all these years within the walls of my castle?" He raged, putting his arms in the air and gathering his ghostly strength. _No surprise that Gaius had never given up the evil art, and that he had been hiding this poison under his wing all this time._ "I will not let your kind ruin my kingdom!"

Uther screamed, flying forward to throttle the foolish creature standing protectively over Arthur. The young man shouted himself, an invisible force pushing Uther back into the path of the recovered knight. "We meet again, old man," the knight said.

Coldly, the serving boy called, "You have done enough harm in life. Camelot was happy to be rid of you, and she does not wish for your return."

The knight's sword came at him again, but Uther was not prepared to fight back. He was able to dodge the first few thrusts, but then the knight swiveled on his feet, his sword changing hands mid-swing and striking upwards in an unexpected and formerly impossible angle.

Uther felt the sting as if it had pierced true skin and he gasped, freezing in his attacks. Through the tearing pain he hissed, "A useless serving boy and his commoner sidekick will _never_ drive me away."

"Perhaps not, but I will." It was muffled, but the words were strong. Where Arthur had once fell, he was now propped against the serving boy's arm as he pushed himself to standing. It looked like it tore him apart to say it, but Arthur spoke anyway. "You think you ruled through fear, but it was your own fears, and your hatred of them, that brought about your downfall. A good king learns from his mistakes."

Quietly, Arthur drew the Horn of Cathbhadh from his pocket, now standing on his own. Uther took a step back as Arthur took a step forward. "Everything I have done is for the love of Camelot, and my love of you."

Arthur shook his head, hurt writ across his regal features. "You are no longer the person I loved and respected."

The horn fell from his fingers, "Arthur, I—" but Arthur crushed it beneath his boot.

Oblivion reached for him. Uther's last words rotted in his throat, his voice becoming the dry rustle of the long-dead leaves covering his tombstone. As he weakened, fell, and faded, he looked out to his son standing proud from the far end of the field.

At each of his shoulders— the gleaming sword of a commoner and the golden eyes of a sorcerer. Here stood Uther's hubris, personified.

"Goodbye, father."

Here stood destiny's vanguard.

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Premise of this week is borrowed from Episode 5.3 The Death Song of Uther Pendragon. Some lines of dialogue were pulled and repurposed. It's such a great episode for showing Arthur's development; I had to steal it.  
(2) Valdis is an old sorceress from that episode who gives Arthur the horn. In the show he prevents her from being burned on a pyre, but in the end she dies anyways from sickness.  
(3) Horn of Cathbhadh is also from the episode. I shrunk it down in size so it was a more reasonable thing for an old woman to keep hidden.  
(4) The halfpenny sigil is explained in P1: Half-Penny Hero, and mentioned in P1: Itsy Bitsy Spiders, and Cell Block Tango.  
(5) _Scildan_ is a shield spell used a handful of times both verbally and non-verbally in the show.

 **Author's Note:**

Hope you all don't mind I stole an episode, even if it's different. I was worried, but Jewels did quip at me that all fanfiction is technically stealing, and how right that is! I hope you don't mind, and that you enjoyed the (many) changes from the original. Thanks to the lovely Jewels for giving me that boost in confidence, and thanks to my wonderful beta Linorien for helping me avoid plot holes and character inconsistencies this time! Huge turnout in reviewers this week, just wow, and PMs inbound for all you great, great Merlin fans.

I personally enjoyed something here. It technically does nothing but offer me amusement. In Ch.5 of P1, Gwaine and Merlin were working together to stop the brollachan, but Gwaine was oblivious. And now, in P2's Ch.5, that's been turned on its head. Gwaine finally knows and I'm so excited. So. Unbelievably. Excited.

FINALLY!

Unfortunately, guys, I am going to be out of the country for over a week. So, I won't be able to post next Sunday. I'll have to push the update until Thursday night next week. Also, Linorien has been a great help with helping me get Chapter 6 situated, it really needs some revamps, so that should give me time to do that and get Chapter 7 a bit more together.

 **Next Time:** Reunion Tour. Merthur bonding as Arthur deals with what happened in the graveyard, and the Leshy finally checks in on Morgana.


	6. Reunion Tour

—

 **Reunion Tour  
** _16 - 5 Kalends of November_

In the forest, she thinks, there are no short trees.

There are only tall ones that tower over her with a disdain for her short-lived existence. Below, in the gloom they create, spindly bushes strive for a morsel of sunlight tossed aside. Their small branches stretch upward, arms reaching, spreading, grasping.

But it's pointless, she thinks. They'll die there, where they started, in the shadows.

Unless one tree were to fall; one rotted through for years. One that would only take a push of magic and then there would be a race for that light.

She picks a fruit pit from the soil and throws it with all her might. It disappears into the ring of trees that surround her. They are the bars of her jail, the sentries at her gate, the unspeaking demons of her long nights.

She hates this unchanging place. It's been weeks, she thinks, since she's been relegated to this secluded, fertile prison of Emrys' making. She has not seen him, nor any other soul. But her powers are returning, and if escape is the game, then she may just win it in the end.

Something shifts in the shadows, one of the trees themselves, and she sits straighter in astonishment as it begins to move into the light. She sees branches that are truly arms, a trunk truly made of long legs, and leaves that form a bundle of hair and beard. It smiles at her and she sees it's teeth of treestumps, sees this is some sort of man or creature, and unable to decide if this is fact or fiction, her mind stumbles and she shrieks when it speaks to her.

That's the first sound she has made all this time, and her hand flies to her throat. It is thick, woolen with disuse, and just another thing she does not recognize.

"What are you?" she asks, the simple phrase catching many times as her voice struggles into use again.

"I am a faerie of this forest," it replies. "You are my companion."

"Companion?" She spits. What is this insanity? Being sold off into slavery is not a fate she would ever willingly abide. If she had wanted to be an heirloom wife, she would have remained fluttering her eyelashes in Uther's court. Venomously, she corrects, "I am a prisoner here."

"Are the fruits not to your liking?" It muses, standing over her and eclipsing the sun. "Do you not enjoy the rain?"

"Yes, perhaps," she says, beginning to realize that this creature may have been watching her all this time. The thought makes her lip curl. She's washed this dress during a storm. "Would you change it for my benefit?"

"Yes, perhaps," it mocks her, grinning that smile that was almost human but frighteningly not so. "Let's go for a walk, little witch."

Morgana's first instinct is to argue. She wants to fight, now that she knows her keeper. Fire always came naturally to her, after all. She can almost see it, the flames at her fingertips, the fear in its eyes. It would be a fitting way for them both to die.

But though she is not one to bow, she has learned to bend, and she'll bend however far she must if it means escape. She will smile whatever false smiles it wishes, heap upon it false praises, and one day she will have the power to ruin it.

 _Soon_ , she thinks. In the early days here she had been afraid to think beyond the pain of the pit, but she had learned in increments to live without the support of a wall at her back, without the support of Aithusa, and now she can stand and walk and feels tendrils of true magic in her belly. It no longer goes to healing her frailties, and it is eager to be used for its true purpose.

The thought of revenge on Emrys leaves her heady. He is no longer an enemy to be wary of, but an enemy to destroy. He took her magic which led to her capture, and he continually defends her stupid, intolerant _brother_ , and he is a bane on the freedom for all magic-users. This thing that claims to own her, that is standing in her way, is only a small creature in the way of her true destiny.

She is meant to be a Queen, she knows. Morgause said so.

She looks up into the faerie's withered face and extends a hand. One of its living vines curls about her and raises her to standing.

She smiles coyly.

This creature will only be the first rotted tree she fells.

* * *

Leon did his best not to frown. He had no reason to frown, and truly he wasn't upset; he had just been told, by the ever-informal Gwaine, that when he was thinking too hard he looked very stern. Though, maybe that was why he had catapulted to the top of the knight's leadership during Uther's reign.

Nearby Elyan and Percival were having a casual conversation about villages they had lived in during their travels across Albion. Elyan, during his time spent away after his mother's death, and Percival, after his village was ruined by Cenred's army. They were terrible reasons to leave home, but the two knights had left behind that trouble and were currently bonding over a particular tavern-wench they both knew of from Droitwich.

"She was keen on Lancelot," Percival was saying with a wistful smile, "and his honor kept him continually helping her with whatever emergency she thought up."

Leon shifted a bit further to the side, acting like he was consumed with his focus on Camelot's front gates. Honestly the majority of him was—his training kept him intent on his view even from the overlook on the castle's walls.

The small part of him that was free to wax on, however, rolled through the words of his fellow Round Table knights. It was an amusing discussion they had not prevented him from entering, but it was one he could not comment on. Not for the first time, he wondered at the differences in his and the others upbringing, and was almost disappointed he had nothing to offer.

He noticed the frown beginning to hit the edges of his mouth again, and he made a concerted effort to lift its edges to a neutral expression. He had nothing to frown over, as he had already decided. Even if he could not quite relate to the other knights because of his own nobility, they had other commonalities and would always fight side by side. The Banquet Hall was cleared, those that had been attacked were safe and accounted for, and Arthur had admitted to causing and closing the magical threat, though only to the Round Table.

A hand fell heavily on his shoulder, and when Leon turned, it was Elyan smiling at him warmly. It was a smile both he and Gwen shared. "Relax, Leon. A war won't break out before a long winter, and Camelot's guards are ever vigilant if I happen to be wrong."

"True, but as captain I should be the last to waver from my responsibility."

Percival grew a small smile, a normal expression for the generally taciturn knight, and Leon gleaned little from it. Elyan, on the other hand, said, "No one can ever say you are not the ideal Captain of the Guard."

Elyan, true to his nature, was not being sarcastic, but Percival's smile flickered in what may have been amusement. Leon didn't miss that Gwaine had made jokes at his expense, the man had a problem with authority in general, and he was certain whatever repercussions of that had shown Percival's hand.

Still, he was not upset. Leon knew that he, personally, was a man who appreciated the rules and the stark contrast between right and wrong. He was a man who always tried to follow the righteous path, and thus being the butt of a joke was unavoidable. If he came across as disingenuous, then so be it. He had been training to be a knight since his childhood, and if the idealisms were ingrained in him now, then it was much too late to change.

A flicker of something caught his subconscious, and he turned back to Camelot's gates, this time forgetting to conceal his frown. Percival asked, "Leon, what do you see?"

That was a good question; he wasn't quite sure what had caught his attention. His eyes skimmed the wide plaza that opened into the Lower Town, and he caught on what had triggered his instincts. A tall female in a faded red dress was strolling purposely through the crowd.

It was too generic a dress to recognize, and too large a city to see her face from this distance, but Leon knew her. He knew her gait, and the strength of her posture. He could imagine the singular focus of her gaze, and the blonde of her hair. "Excuse me," he said to Elyan and Percival, and turned quickly for the exit.

Elyan's mouth opened, likely wondering if there was an order he needed to take, but Leon was a disciplined enough leader that if he were going to tell them to do something, the order would have already been given. The two men watched him go off with slight curiosity, but without a fight.

Leon made his way quickly through the halls of Camelot's castle, and he was walking through the courtyard's archway when he spied her again, a solitary figure in peasant thread striding resolutely up the grand road of the Upper Town.

He met her halfway. "My lady," Leon said with a slight bow. "What brings you to Camelot? You look concerned."

"I told you, I'm not a lady," she replied with a flicker of an eye-roll. This was Forridel, a once-citizen of Camelot who had been forced to flee to a Druid encampment. Now, she lived as a tanner with Iseldir in the Forest of Brecffa to the south. "But I have a request of Arthur, on behalf of Iseldir."

Leon nodded and with a gesture offered to take the pack from her shoulders. It looked to be a few more animal skins prepared for sale, and the usual necessities of a traveler. "Would you like to rest first? I can offer food or water, or a room to sleep in."

She kept a firm grip on her pack, giving him a strange look. She had never liked him doing things for her. "Where?" She said bluntly.

Leon had to think a bit more carefully now, Arthur would assuredly not mind him offering a room in the castle, but Forridel certainly wouldn't accept it. "There would be space in my family home."

She looked at him dubiously. "I think I'll stay in an inn."

He took the rejection in stride. "Then you must let me show you the safer side of town."

She turned about on her heal. "I recall where that is, but if you're coming with me anyways, I can tell you the news instead." She peered back at him, "Does that work out with your knight's code?"

Leon agreed, offering his arm which she laughed off. However, when he had moved slightly ahead to lead the way, he caught her putting her hands into her braided updo, checking the arrangement and trying to tuck stray strands back into place.

Instead of down and back through the Upper Town, he took her on the more scenic route, past the training greens and towards the tournament grounds. "It's just like I remember," she said, surprised.

"You thought it would change?" He remarked.

"So much else has," she replied.

They exchanged a look, and then he put a hand on her elbow to lead her round the base of the arena, and onto the wide road that edged the lower side of the Upper Town and was lined with higher class inns and eateries. "Tell me your news," Leon said.

"It's mostly rumors and guesswork," she said starkly. "With the winter coming up soon, and the camp completely built, Iseldir has been long expecting the last third of the Druids from Essetir's camp."

"They're missing?" Leon guessed.

"The Druid Elders have been arguing for weeks over it. They think the group was accosted at the border. There's no other reason to have gone so long without word."

Certainly not. This near the Kalends of November, all in Camelot were expecting the first frost any day. The Druids would think the same, and there was no reason to risk traveling in the cold by delaying their journey. Surely something had happened.

He cast his mind over scattered reports he'd heard from various patrols, trying to piece together a puzzle. He filtered first for recent stories from the East, where Essetir lay, and then overlay that with the myriad of more casual conversations he had held, since the burning of the witch, concerning unrest in the region.

"There are always bandits in our forests, and there could have been an attack by villagers, but I doubt the strength of either. A Druid group would not be so easily swept through," he added, thinking back to the days he had once spent hunting them. He may not have been proud of them now, but he did know that Druids could be a formidable foe if you were not prepared to attack swiftly and without mercy.

In addition, he surely would have heard of a battle, even if it were over the border. Blood trails were always lain, whether through rumor or river-bourne bodies.

"I'll speak with Arthur," he finished, realizing he had been silent for a stretch. "I suspect Lot's army were involved, and Arthur will have to decide how to handle this."

With curiosity she asked, "Do you think he'll actually do anything? I doubt he would risk war over a handful of Druids."

Leon stopped and put a hand on the door of The Mighty Quill, an average inn for this row of businesses, but still a much better choice than the looser pubs the knights usually frequented. He knew the owner well, the father of a brave guard that had died during Morgana's last attack, and because of that he knew Forridel would be safe here. "Arthur will do what is right, it's why we all follow him as our king." He cut her a glance. "He will not turn his back on Iseldir now, not when he's already given his word."

"You're so earnest," Forridel smiled, "but I believe you." Leon pushed the door open and she poked her head in, and immediately leaned back out. "I cannot afford it."

"This is something I won't take a refusal on," he said, keeping the door open with a foot, and then reaching out to block her from retreating further. "You are a guest of Camelot. As Captain of the Guard, I will cover your expenses."

She frowned prettily. "I don't think that's necessary; there are other inns just down the road—"

"As a favor to me," Leon maintained, nudging her inward, "stay. It would malign my honor to not treat you after your selfless journey."

She quirked a brow, but he could tell he had won at least this. "Whatever happened to 'preserve the honor of a woman'? I can take care of myself."

He offered a joke that surely would have rolled the eyes of his fellow knights, "That is an important rule in our code, but 'perseverance to the end of any enterprise begun,' falls higher on the list."

She scoffed, "Oh, so you've 'begun' have you? I'm honored, Sir Knight," then she laughed and curtseyed.

Leon grinned back.

A frown was the furthest thing from his mind.

* * *

Arthur returned to the East tower, and to Gaius' chambers. This was a place he had frequented in his youth, every scrape treated by the Court Physician in this chamber smelling of spice and flora. This room had become a place of safety and another measure of his years.

He could remember being so young that his eyes barely passed over the edge of Gaius' worktable, and looking in wonder at the rows of jars filled with mysterious concoctions. He recalled smirking at Brennis after besting him in a fight, and watching his friend pout while they each received a verbal lashing. He would always remember waking on the spare cot after a threat on his life, and recognizing the familiar feel of this place and knowing he was home.

This many years later, Gaius' chambers were very different. His wife was currently sleeping peacefully in the space for patients, and his manservant sat at the main table, lazily polishing pieces of Arthur's armor. These were two people who he could never have imagined fitting so seamlessly into his life, but now he could shut the door to Gaius' chambers behind him, and know again the feeling of coming home.

"What was that about?" Merlin asked, referring to Arthur's absence.

"Part of Iseldir's camp has disappeared." Arthur shook his head, astonished at the juxtaposition of his own thoughts. Seeing his father had been a reminder of everything Uther had warned against, and yet here he was already decided in defending the Druids. "I want to know where they went."

Merlin raised an eyebrow. "You look like you already have a plan."

"That's because I'm a capable leader," Arthur replied smartly.

Merlin shrugged, "As long as it doesn't require going through dangerous caves and covering ourselves with foul-smelling berries, I'm in."

"You were never 'out', Merlin. _Someone_ has to carry my pack."

Merlin rolled his eyes as Arthur plopped himself onto the chair next to Guinevere. He scowled as he brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and wished again that she would wake. He hated that her need for rest meant he had to wait—he yearned to speak with her, and to apologize. "She'll be back to normal soon, Arthur," Merlin piped. "I've checked multiple times and it's just the usual sorts of headaches and dizziness that come with a concussion."

"Thank you, Merlin, especially for bringing her to Gaius immediately." Arthur's scowl deepened as he thought over what had happened because of his own temptations. He sighed in frustration, "Why would he attack her? She took care of him when he was ill. He knew her for years as Morgana's ward."

Merlin answered cautiously. "You know there were always certain things that blinded him."

Arthur's glower lessened as he put his head in his hands. "I know," he agreed eventually. He drifted, and the sounds of Merlin's steady hand scraping against metal filled the room. He watched the rise and fall of Guinevere's chest, and he thought about the wide range of emotions he'd felt when he'd seen his father once again in that graveyard.

"When I was a child, fighting with wooden swords against Morgana, it was my father I wanted to make proud; it wasn't thoughts of the kingdom or honor or duty that made me train harder."

Merlin glanced at him, paying close attention to his words. Arthur's breastplate gleamed from a ray of sunlight, and an old scratch flashed with the angle. "Then as a Prince he made me Captain of the Guard. A part of me thought I was worthy of his praise then, but there was always a skill to improve, or something that I could have handled better. I know he loved me, but he was such a hard man to please."

Merlin stopped his motions, and his eyes shifted back to the armor on the table. He had no comment, for once.

"And then I was Regent," Arthur shrugged, as if it were nothing to focus on. But soon after, quietly, he admitted, "In the back of my mind I thought that if I just did everything right, he would return to normal.

"Now I've been the king of Camelot for a year, I understand many more of the weights that come with this crown, and I've finally realized that I'll never be able to please my father." He stroked Gwen's cheek with his thumb, thinking of the twinkle in her eye when she teased him, and the strength of her back when she carried him. "I've realized I no longer want to."

With a quiet vehemence that stole the room, "You are a far better, and far more worthy, ruler than Uther could ever hope to be."

Arthur looked to his friend speculatively, as he always did when Merlin chose to be wise and, almost surprisingly, fiercely loyal. "My father would never have given in to magic and produced a threat to this kingdom."

"But magic was not the threat this time, Arthur. It was your father."

They exchanged a long look that Arthur could not have guessed the fundamental strain of. It wasn't support, and it wasn't judgement. Maybe this was just the way plain truth manifested; he should recognize it by now after having Merlin around for so many years. He confessed, "Yes, you're right."

"A thank you _and_ admitting you were wrong? This is unprecedented." Merlin held out gauntlet. "Would you like to help polish too?"

Arthur snorted. "I wouldn't want to embarrass you. You've been doing it wrong all these years, after all."

"Your fault for hiring a farmboy." Merlin put the breastplate aside and turned his focus on the gauntlet. A soft smile began to spread on his face, and eventually he made no effort to hide it.

"What are you so happy about?" Arthur questioned bluntly.

"I'm just proud of you," Merlin said happily, undaunted by Arthur's roll of the eyes. "You've come so far from the prat in the market that attacked a peasant boy for no reason."

"That peasant was an idiot. Still is, in fact."

Merlin raised a brow cheekily. "Why keep him around then?"

"Convenience, I suppose," Arthur joked. Merlin continued to smile, and watching him work was almost like meditating. It was soothing. It reminded of simpler times, and he leaned down to press a quick kiss to Guinevere's forehead before joining his friend at the central table. "And also because he may be one of the bravest men I know."

Merlin's mouth popped open, but Arthur cut him off. "I heard the tail end of what you said to my father. You stood against a barrow-wight with no way to defend yourself and practically invited him to kill you."

"You would do the same for me," Merlin replied with confidence. He set the gauntlet aside and cracked at his knuckles as his hand began to cramp.

"I guess I already have," Arthur mused quietly, thinking of the Morteaus flower and how he had invited his father's fury, and then more precisely over Merlin's words the night before. "You disliked my father, didn't you?"

Merlin mouth twitched, and he ducked his face away towards a greave in need of polishing.

"I think Gwen does too," Arthur thought aloud. "His accusations led to her father's death. She's a forgiving soul, but I can read from what she doesn't say." He snapped his fingers in Merlin's face. "Just tell me what you think. I want to know."

Merlin leaned back, playing with the greave in his hand but no longer using it as an excuse to ignore him. He seemed to weigh invisible thoughts in his mind. "Gwen's father had no magic to be condemned over, and even then he was arrested for a spell that had harmed no one. I think Uther was wrong then, and not for the first time."

"It was unjust, I know that," Arthur sighed. He slumped slightly, propping his head in his palm and hiding part of his face in a display of emotion not seen by many. "Sometimes, Merlin, this law is very confusing."

Merlin was silent for a long, long time. "What do you mean?'

"You know," Arthur waved a hand, "death for using magic. I'm not stupid. I know the Druids must still have some magic users, but so far they've been entirely peaceful. And I just used a magical artifact yesterday! And that's not the first one I've used." Arthur drummed his fingers against the table. "By my own laws, I should hang."

Astutely, more familiar with the train of thought than Arthur had expected, Merlin responded, "Only one of you can be wrong. Either yourself, for using magic, or the law, for convicting it."

Arthur shook his head. "I think it's a bit of both. The power of strong magic is corrupting. Its abilities are a temptation that can drive even the most honest of people into immorality. Just look at Morgana."

"I think she's a bad example," Merlin said quickly.

"She's the only one I have," Arthur replied. "The only person I've known well both with and without magic."

Merlin struggled with that comment for another long period. Arthur was familiar with the minute changes on Merlin's face, and he recognized another war taking place. However, whereas Merlin's true thoughts on Uther had won out before, whatever argument plagued him this time did not come out in Arthur's favor.

Merlin smiled, his eyes in half-moons. "It's time for Gwen's ointment. Pass me that cup, will you?"

Arthur did not react immediately, wondering. He wondered if he should call Merlin out and force a better response. He wondered if Iseldir had magic, and if he should consider him in this internal debate. He wondered on the Druids he wanted to save, and whether he was a hypocrite for doing so.

In the end, though, he kept his thoughts to himself. Instead, in what some may call oblivious, he allowed Merlin this pass and turned for the workbench.

He squinted, then ordered, "Be more specific; I know you lack eloquent vocabulary, but all these cups look very different."

* * *

A few short days hence, Merlin tucked a spare change of Gwen's clothes at her bedside before he left the Physician's Chambers. Though she was sleeping again, she was staying awake longer now, and had regained the vitality to roll her eyes at Arthur when he informed her the knights would be remaining in Camelot to protect her.

If he remembered correctly, her exact words had been 'From falling shields, Arthur?'

Still, even in peasant clothes, five burly men with swords would always stand out, so it was better that some of the knights remained behind. If he were to follow through on Arthur's masterful plan of walking to a border-village and asking around, they had to be as subtle as possible. Though, even dressed in one of Merlin's oldest shirts, Arthur was about as subtle as a horse in a wedding party.

Even now, where Merlin could see him in the distance, Arthur's proud shoulders and golden hair were a beacon that screamed _look at me_. Things would definitely not work out with subtlety if Arthur were involved; they rarely ever did. He smirked—all the more reason to have a backup plan.

"Ready?" He called when he stopped in front of Arthur. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder that held blankets, some food, and a vial or two of herbal remedies. If something terrible had happened to the Druids they would be his foil while he used magic to help them.

"Finally done brushing your hair, I see," Arthur snarked.

"I wanted to look nice for our date," Merlin answered, just as quick.

Arthur made a sound of disgust and turned away. He strode purposely through the rest of the city and then out onto the main road that would eventually lead into the forests around Camelot.

Merlin couldn't help the grin on his face. He was hopeful. More hopeful than he had ever been regarding Arthur and Albion and their shared destiny. A journey specifically to help the Druids, and the conversation had recently, must only mean the law was near to being repealed. Maybe freedom was closer than he ever could have imagined. He wondered what that felt like - to be truly free.

They weren't long into the trees when they heard a crunching that halted Arthur in his tracks.

Arthur's hand closed around the pommel of Excalibur, and he held up a hand that Merlin did actually know meant stop and be quiet. Though, he knew they were in no danger, and he took great enjoyment watching Arthur's aggravation. So, he trundled onward without heed to Arthur's hiss of " _Merlin!"_

"What?" He called back, much too loud.

" _Someone is out there_ ," Arthur said with deliberate slowness, eyes casting around the two of them.

A head popped over Merlin's shoulder, and a voice said, "Who's out there?"

Arthur's attention snapped back forward, and he glared as Gwaine took the last bite out of an apple and then tossed the core behind him. "What are you doing here?"

Gwaine grinned and winked at Merlin, who chuckled, glad Gwaine had found them so easily. "Princess, I'm just as surprised to see you. I was just out picking herbs for Gaius."

Merlin's laughter became an embarrassing round of giggles and snorts, and Arthur propped his hands on his hips. "Following me again, weren't you? What part of 'solo mission' gets you thinking you're invited?"

Gwaine squawked, jerking a thumb in Merlin's direction.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but was forced to concede. "Alright, you can come. Not like you'll listen to reason anyways." He shouldered past the two giggling men, and Merlin hopped to join him. Merlin elbowed him gently.

"You don't mind do you?"

Arthur just snorted, and then had to brace himself as Gwaine's weight fell on him. The knight had just thrown his arms around both his and Merlin's shoulders.

His smile was infectious, and he looked back and forth between his two traveling companions. "Band's finally back together, mates."

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) The Leshy is a forest creature based on Russian myth, actually (P1: Lucky Charms, P1: The Sound of Silence).  
(2) Droitwich, a salt town near Camelot I've mentioned before (P1: Seven Layer Upside Down Cake).  
(3) Forridel, canon! 2.13 _The Nightmare Begins_. She's a Camelot citizen who was forced to flee because of her association with the Druids. In Three Wheels she's also a tanner (P1: Seven Layer Upside Down Cake, P1: Surprise! It's a Love Story, P1: Cell Block Tango).  
(4) Arthur and Merlin reference a time Gwen's father, Tom, was condemned for accidental association with sorcery (1.12 _To Kill A_ King).  
(5) I got mad at myself. I've gone back to the way the dates should be. 16 Kalends of November to 5 Kalends of November is about the 16th - 26th of October. I think it looks uglier at the top of the chapter, but at least it's slightly more accurate.

 **Author's Note:**

My little boat flying the FLeon flag has made another appearance.

Huge thanks to my internet sisters this chapter. Dmarie helped me decide to continue to go with present tense in Morgana's scenes, Jewels I had a great time with while I 'met' Leon properly, and extraordinary-beta Linorien you all have to thank for the Merthur scene. Seriously, she saved me this chapter.

And on that note, yes! They're finally talking about magic! I feel like Merlin wouldn't keep as silent anymore, considering what he went through in the finales of Part 1.

And to my lovely reviewers, really very very glad you all liked my remake of an episode. Whew! PMs inbound for you. Also, I'm looking for a one chapter fic poking fun at us authors, or other tropes of the Merlin fandom. I'm having an itch to laugh at myself. Do you know of any?

 **Next time:** The Audacity of Hope. It's Samhain, and Merlin, Gwaine, and Arthur finally find the Druids.


	7. The Audacity of Hope

—

 **The Audacity of Hope  
** _Samhain_

Arthur, Gwaine, and Merlin were three very different people.

For example, when they'd discovered the old, empty Druid camp in the forest of Ascetir, Arthur's hunting instinct decided that they _must_ sweep the area for tracks while Merlin and Gwaine had thought this ridiculous. In Merlin's opinion, the Druids had cleared this place to the point where it looked untouched. If he hadn't known this was the old camp for sure, because of magical remnants, he would have doubted they were even in the right area.

Arthur had been right though. A group that large couldn't move through a forest and leave absolutely no trace, and eventually they did find minute traces that led them south.

In another example, when they reached the border village of Engerd, Arthur fruitlessly defaulted to attacking the problem head on, asking anyone if they'd seen the Druids, with results ranging from strange looks to curt denials. Groups came through this village often, especially during the close of harvest season, and the Druids rarely broadcast their existence in the first place. Merlin had turned to subtle magic, hoping to track them, but found their traces too weak to follow. However, Gwaine's charm and need for a drink quickly gained them a feast of rumors. The widespread sentiment was one of anticipation. Lords had been traveling to the capitol. Lot was planning something.

After another trek eastward, they arrived in Essetir's capitol, where rumors that Lot placed the heads of his enemies on spikes around the castle appeared true. One rotting skull remained at the front gates, and it was a dire warning to the Druid shanty town forced to sprout around it. When Arthur, Gwaine, and Merlin approached the Druid internment camp, a ripple of excitement echoed audibly through the crowd.

And here, the third, was the most telling of examples.

Because, as many eyes turned to them, some watchful, some in relief, but all in hope, Arthur leaned over and murmured, "I think they recognize me."

And Gwaine grinned while waving jauntily. "Duh. We spent a week with them only a few months ago, and you spent the entire time strutting around."

And Merlin, the only to notice the rippling whisper had echoed _Emrys,_ blushed in embarrassment and did not correct them.

* * *

Essetir was a much poorer kingdom than Camelot, and the castle's construction only proved it. The timber of the surrounding forests were more abundant and much cheaper to obtain than stones, and so the capitol's walls were made of thick tree trunks sharpened at their peaks to dissuade climbers. A haphazard, shallow moat had been dug around the border, helping the walls to appear taller than they truly were, and a single tower peaked over their edge to mark the position of the small castle.

Gwaine quipped again, "Well we found them. Now what?"

Arthur frowned. "We figure out what's going on here."

The three of them stood near the border of a swelling campsite forced into the grounds outside the capitol's walls, wondering where to start. Despite the small size of the camp, there were many more Druids than Forridel had told them to expect, and Lot's guards stood in an open circle around them - a constant reminder that the Druids had been forced here.

While they wavered, the Druids' attention was pulled by the arrival of another small group of travelers, pushed forward by orange-cloaked knights at their back. A buzz of annoyance rose over the camp. Some were offended on behalf of these newly obtained Druids, prodded forward like livestock. Others muttered how they were smashed together enough as it was, and the pervasive smell of unwashed bodies and the already limited food could not abide a dozen more.

"Come on," Arthur said, pushing his way towards them. "Maybe they know something."

Gwaine leapt forward, tackling Arthur and Merlin to the ground before they could register the movement.

"What—" Merlin leaned back and spat a wet clod of dirt, making a face. "What are you doing?"

"You don't recognize him?" Gwaine hissed, eyes narrowed at the group of knights Merlin could no longer see.

Arthur reacted less passively, nearly striking Gwaine in the jaw as he thrashed to push the rogue off. "How can I from down here?"

"It's 'Lord' Urien," Gwaine's lip curled. This was a noble he hated more than most, the kind that beat on peasants in bouts of self-indulgence, and he easily recalled the urges he'd had to strike this man down. Merlin caught Gwaine's eye, and a subtle shake of his head made Gwaine only glower further. He didn't know what was worse—that Merlin had taken the hit without argument, or that he had more than enough power to defend himself and chose not to.

"He'll blow our cover," Merlin finished quickly.

Arthur acquiesced, and remained hunched over. He continued, "The same lord that fought in the Tournament of Camelot?"

Merlin nodded, not bothering to hide the wide grin that took over his face. "Elyan trounced him." His eyes flashed towards Gwaine and he emphatically suggested, "Which is why Gwaine should just let it go."

Arthur's eyes tracked back and forth between the rogue and his manservant. "What do you both know that I don't?"

Before Merlin could explain, Gwaine interjected, "I'll distract Urien. That way you both can find a Druid leader and get some answers."

Merlin grabbed at him as he tried to leave, his hand latching onto the scabbard of Gwaine's sword. "If you take this, he'll find a reason to fight you."

"I'm not going weaponless," Gwaine argued.

"Don't get yourself killed for me," Merlin said again, trying to communicate silently that this was not the time for another sacrificial offering to destiny.

Gwaine seemed to get the gist. He was well versed in Lancelot's first death. "I would have defended you regardless of… well, you know," he said, but swiftly unbuckled the swordbelt. "But I see your point. I can't risk fighting him with Lot's army at his back."

Gwaine moved away from Arthur and Merlin before they could argue further, and his eyes scanned the handful of newly arrived knights. Urien was pacing catlike around his captured Druids while his knights pushed them into the more secure borders of the internment camp. The Druids themselves were a mixture of old and young, and they looked lost as they were led closer to brethren they had never met.

Fortunately for them, an elder man in a thick black cloak stepped out of the crowd. He had a silvered beard and small, sharp eyes that belied his intelligence. More importantly, though, he had an unafraid confidence in his bearing that Gwaine had learned to recognize. This was either a great warrior or a sorcerer, but certainly he was considered a leader. Hopefully Arthur and Merlin had noticed.

To give them the opening they would need, Gwaine slipped into a position between Urien and the black-cloaked man. He twisted when Urien drew closer, ensuring that his shoulder banged against the Lord's.

Urien paused. "You're in my way."

Gwaine shrugged, "The ladies call me a troll, so maybe it's in my nature." Gwaine hated his own sycophantic smile, but it remained stolidly in place even as Urien leaned away with an aggravated huff. "You look like a classy guy," Gwaine interrupted again, just as Urien looked about to move on. "Should I be bowing or something? You ain't the king, are you?"

That finally caught Urien's full attention, and he paused to judge Gwaine carefully. Gwaine hiccuped, feigning a slight inebriation. He wasn't sure where he was supposed to have gotten ale around here, but it was an act he could do well. With disdain, Urien said, "I'm a lord, and yes, you should be bowing."

Gwaine swept into a superfluous bend, arm swinging wide. "Milord," he gushed. When he stood again, he asked, "If you're a lord, you must know everything about this camp. Can you tell me what I'm supposed to be waiting for?"

"If you don't already know, then you really are a fool," Urien replied. But his chest puffed slightly out, and it appeared Gwaine's excessive praises had warmed the rotter just enough. Gwaine was both fortunate and unfortunate to have experience maneuvering his way round noble personalities. "Let me see you guess."

"I really wouldn't know, sir," he tried with a bit of a forced sway.

"Then you are as unamusing as you are drunk," Urien sniped. He swept a hand in the space between them, turning to leave. "Just remember to stay put. The King will make an announcement when we've gathered all the Druids in Essetir." He walked out of the camp, pushing others aside as they got in his way, orange cloak billowing behind him. A thought made him halt, however, and he glanced back with a smirk. "Should I use fewer words, or did you get that, simpleton?"

Urien continued away before Gwaine's glare could manifest. _Disgusting useless filth,_ Gwaine thought in a black fury, _sister fucking bastard—_

He didn't perceive his involuntary steps forward, but someone, somewhere, had, and a force gripped him with the iron restraints of a jail cell. Then Merlin's hand shot out from the crowd, holding him fiercely as the magic receded. "You said you wouldn't," Merlin said as he appeared at Gwaine's side.

"I can't help how much I hate him," Gwaine muttered, shaking Merlin off and holding his hand out for his sword back. Merlin looked at him suspiciously but placed it in his palm. "Explain to me why you haven't sent him running for the hills yet, because I'm having a hard time understanding why you prefer rolling over like a kicked dog."

Merlin prickled, and, sure, that particular comment was a bit uncalled for. "I pick my battles, Gwaine, and Urien isn't worth one."

"Fine, fine," Gwaine answered, calming a fraction more as he settled his swordbelt into place. "You're right, for now."

* * *

Merlin sighed. He didn't always know how well he was fighting for what he believed in, but in this he really did think he was right. "Come on. We have some time to kill."

"Where's Arthur?" Gwaine asked.

Merlin pointed off to the left. "With a man named Ruadan. He's the unofficial leader of this camp. Arthur's picking his brain."

Gwaine hummed, but offered what he learned, mentioning what Urien had said about Lot's announcement. Merlin appeared to barely be listening.

"Right," Merlin agreed, a tad distracted, "I heard the same. They've been waiting here for weeks; rumor is Lot's going to make it illegal for them to live here."

Gwaine blinked, "How do you already know all of this?"

Merlin tapped at his forehead, "I asked everyone. But of course I can't burst out with all that information. Arthur will want to gather some of it on his own. So, as I said, we have some time to kill."

"Wait," Gwaine said, holding him in place as his eyes widened with dawning realization. "Druids _can_ read minds?" Merlin's eyebrows rose, but Gwaine cut in again, " _I knew it!"_ He threw his arms in the air and shouted, "Sard it all, I bloody _knew it!_ "

His face scrunched up and he stared at Merlin, and Merlin supposed this meant that Gwaine was trying to speak to him. "I can't read _your_ mind," he said in a huff. "You don't have—well, you know." Merlin looked around; he couldn't believe he was having this conversation without being absolutely sure of how near or far Arthur was, not to mention other non-magic people in close proximity. "So, I guess we need a codeword."

"I'll think of a good one," Gwaine said, pleased to get the chance. "Now where are you taking me?"

Sheepishly Merlin grinned. "While Arthur is busy with her father," he gestured with his head as they neared a young woman seated near a shallow fire pit, "we've been offered a chance to carve turnip lanterns."

"You met a girl," Gwaine said flatly. "Merlin, mate, you're amazing."

Dryly Merlin said, "You'd be surprised what _not_ trying to get under a girl's skirts could do for you."

"False," Gwaine corrected. "I already know I'd be bored." He laughed as Merlin rolled his eyes, and then smiled at the pale brunette. She had thin, light hair pulled back messily, a dimpled chin, and a round, innocent face. Large breasts too if Gwaine had been looking, which he wasn't. "I'm Gwaine, Merlin's friend," he introduced.

"Sefa," she replied with a small smile, then held out a turnip in each hand for Gwaine and Merlin. "To keep the spirits away this Samhain."

"I might just eat it and take my chances," Gwaine joked.

Sefa laughed lightly, and pulled a small pot over. It already held a layer of water and the beginnings of a turnip mash from where she'd begun to hollow out her own turnip. "I'll feed you both, but you'll have to work for it."

They both settled into the short grass near her, and accepted the turnips and rigid wooden spoons. It was a trial to dig out the hard insides, but it was a good distraction from the Druid plight. Merlin was glad for it. Even though he felt a hint of guilt for ignoring the overriding problem, this was one of the few times he had gained a chance to learn more about the Druid culture.

Sefa had no magic and hadn't yet been told who he was, and it was a relief. She didn't shy away, or assume he already knew what to do. Instead, she spoke plainly about her childhood carving turnips with her father, and the stories she'd been told on where the tradition came from. He was content here, listening, carving, and learning. Though that didn't stop some of the other Druids from finding reasons to pass nearby, eyeing him, wondering what he was planning while struggling with a turnip.

By the time they were whittling out faces, Sefa had noticed as well. "I'm popular tonight," she said, a bit confused.

"It's because we're new," Merlin answered swiftly, innocent smile in place.

Gwaine looked around, managing to catch the eye of a handful of Druids, and watched as they quickly turned away and continued back to their campsites. "Are they coming to talk to you?" Gwaine asked, also somewhat bewildered while tapping at his forehead.

Merlin made a gesture to not say any more, but Sefa was distracted regardless. She was looking behind them both, taking in a message they couldn't see. "My father's calling me," she said, taking the pot of turnip mash off the fire. "I'll be back."

When she'd gone, Gwaine raised a brow. "I was under the impression the Druids knew you had magic."

Merlin half-grinned apologetically. "Most do, but she doesn't. So she has no idea who I am, and that's a bit of a relief from all this staring."

Gwaine laughed. "Have they never seen a sorcerer-servant before?"

Embarrassment turned the tips of Merlin's ears red. "I don't know how to say this…."

Gwaine deadpanned. "You're a faerie aren't you?"

"What?" Merlin said, shocked, "No."

"Oh good. I couldn't imagine what could be more mind-boggling than dragonlord and warlock."

That made him tilt his head back and laugh. Now the truth didn't sound so bad. Leave it to Gwaine to make this entire life-changing prophecy feel casual. "They think I'm going to bring magic back to Albion."

Gwaine shrugged, "That makes sense, considering. Even if you didn't have magic, you're probably only one of two people who could convince Arthur to repeal the ban."

"I don't know," Merlin slumped. "I'm hopeful, definitely. But Arthur still thinks magic is evil."

Gwaine made an _a-ha_ sound as he finally got his turnip's eyesocket to fly off. "Just tell him it's not." Merlin balked, and Gwaine continued. "You're not evil. Seems like simple math to me. Princess isn't that dumb."

Merlin looked down at his hands. He clenched them tightly and then let them fall loose, watching the half-moon indentations from his nails fade back into normal skin. Gwaine made it sound so simple. Tell Arthur you have magic, that you've had magic this entire time, that you're duplicitous, that you killed his father, that you freed Morgana, that—

He clenched his hands again. The sun slipped away. Nerves fluttered in his gut. The darkness, the wide range of Druids, the enemies nearby; it reminded him of the Battle of Arderydd.

But Uther was long gone, and Arthur had forsaken him now. He had welcomed Druids into Camelot's borders, he was here trying to help them, he had questioned the law against magic—

Maybe it was time, Merlin thought. Maybe I can tell him now. _Maybe we're both ready._

He put his hands over his face, the feeling of his heart beating out of his chest overwhelming him. He was lost in a mixture of panic and wild hope. _I don't think there's a reason to wait any longer._

The hope won out, and it was blinding. _I could tell him tonight._

An angry shout echoed through the camp, and then a few more from different voices sprang after - racing to be heard. Merlin tilted his head up, unable to make out the words. He expected it to die out quickly, but the shouts became more frequent, overlapping, sounding increasingly more like something that couldn't turn back. He and Gwaine shared a concerned look, and as one they set down their lanterns and searched out the argument.

It was on the edge of the camp, and they had to push through a fierce contingent of men and women to finally get eyes on the source. It was an elder woman, held back by another man, caught up in screaming at a pair of guards. A young boy was trapped with them.

"No one is allowed to leave the perimeter." The lead guard announced, a hand blocking the child from returning to his parents. "We have to check him for what he may be bringing back with him."

"He's a child!" The mother screamed.

"It's the rules," the guard tried to reason, to the increasing anger of the crowd. People scoffed, yelled, screamed that they hadn't done anything wrong. The child was innocent. They were being treated like criminals.

"Give me my son!"

The guard put his spear up, looking fearful. A second guard kept hold of the child's shoulder, the boy's eyes wide and teary. "Stay back!"

" _Keep your hands off him!"_

She ripped out from the arms that held her, reaching out with hands clawed. " _Get away from them, run, go!"_ She was shrieking to the terrified child. " _They'll kill you!"_ The lead guard flinched back, but the second reacted, lowering his own weapon down and catching her just below the shoulder.

The crowd roared.

The woman held her hand up and blew both guards backwards, slamming their heads into the ground with deadly cracks.

She slumped, the blood loss taking its toll. Other guards ran forward, trying to hold back the crowd. A row of men replaced the fallen guards, spears lowered in an attack position. Someone yelled, "Don't!"

From somewhere a crossbow bolt loosed - the crowd surged forward - and the arrow pierced a bystander. Merlin watched the body crumple, and then saw as the first Druids fell to Lot's army.

No, he thought, _no_ , he wasn't going to watch them all die. _Not again._

 _But_ \- he whirled, searched out Gwaine. The knight had already drawn his sword and held it defensively as Druids spilled around him. It was a struggle to be near enough for Gwaine to hear him, and he had to scream above the rising noise. He was desperate, raw. Pleading and demanding. "Find Arthur!" Merlin's eyes went gold, and he made sure Gwaine saw them. " _I have to help them._ Please—"

Gwaine understood. The spot of chaos was steadily becoming a full-on rebellion. "Watch your back," Gwaine said seriously, then disappeared into the throngs.

Merlin turned back to where the thickest of the fighting was, and then he closed his eyes and thought he'd just take his chances. There was no time to be subtle. He knew the spell for age, and he'd practiced transfiguration recently enough to draw from the specialized spell in this moment. His red shirt lengthened until it swept his feet, the arms loosening until they were robelike, and his hair erupted until it hung long and grey down his chest and back.

This form may be old and stiff, but it was one that didn't have to hide its power.

He was worried for Arthur, extremely. Arthur's life was precious to him, and Arthur's safety was never far from his mind. But he had lived the horror of watching a massacre, had succumbed to its mindlessness, knew the fear and the sickness from doing nothing _._ From watching others do nothing. He would not run away from this.

Merlin let the extent of his magic balloon in his chest, and tuned himself to the thrum of it sweeping underneath his skin. With it came the reminder of Albion's magic, and that raw energy swirled just outside the crack in his veil, chaotic and angry and wanting a target.

Today Lot's steel would have more to battle against than peaceful Druids. Today, their bigotry would face Albion itself. The wind began to whip through his clothes, and the pulse of it and his magic forced the crowd back. He stretched an arm for the sky.

A hundred voices echoed in his mind, exultant to petrified, but all screaming _Emrys._

Merlin let the clouds roll in.

* * *

Gwaine is pushing through the crowd, struggling to remember in what direction he had last seen Arthur, and feeling static electricity lifting the hairs on his arms.

His sword is out, but he doesn't actually raise it against anyone. He knows what side he thinks he's on, but there's room to not be entirely sure. Regardless, as a unit everyone ducks when the first bolt of lightning streams down. It's so loud that he doesn't hear screams or blown bodies or ringing metal, but he does twist in time to see an old man's silhouette against the bright light.

Then the thunder's echo is gone, and the Druids scream in a revitalized battle cry. A man bellows "Emrys!" with pride, while a woman repeats him with worship, and Gwaine gets a strange feeling that _Emrys_ is someone he knows very well. The strange feeling gets stronger, and he thinks his hand might be shaking.

Then there's a gap in the crowd and he sees Arthur. Excalibur is undrawn, and there is a pocket of space around the king. Gwaine has always thought he was the kind of guy that rolled with the punches, but nothing right now sounds better than standing shoulder to shoulder with Arthur. He moves again with a singular focus.

He's stopped, of course. It's the bang of shoulders as he collides with someone else and they both stumble. Then it's a fist on the back of his shirt and a voice saying, "I keep finding you where I least want you," and the cold tip of a knife in his side. It's more than self-preservation and instinct that twists his body in a tight circle, folding his sword inward and knocking the knife away.

Both men back up a step, and Gwaine finds himself looking at Lord Urien, sans orange cloak, and slowly drawing his sword. He wonders where this weasel was sneaking to, but he can't help but recall in blinding flashback the sight of Urien striking Merlin cross the face, the black look in Merlin's eye afterwards, and then the silhouette backlit by lightning. He knows he's seen the hint of Merlin's danger before in strange separate fragments he hadn't known what to do with, but now that he actually is holding the pieces, he can't seem to put the puzzle together.

Urien says something stupid. "You're bit too acquainted with a sword for a drunken fool. Who are you?"

That's a good question, Gwaine thinks. Because he's a once-noble of Caerleon, and a drunk peasant of the Northern Plains, and somehow also a knight of Camelot. He isn't quite sure how those puzzle pieces all fit together either. "I'm Gwaine," he decides to reply. "And you were a cunt to my best friend."

And then he says _Sard it,_ and strikes first. His sword comes down horizontally and Urien blocks it. They struggle in the middle, and Gwaine initially has the advantage because he's pushing down, but then Urien leans back and kicks forward, and when Gwaine is forced to dodge the swords separate.

Gwaine presses forward. He's seen Urien fight before, and he's paid attention. The Lord doesn't stand a chance. He sideswipes, then thrusts for the shoulder. Swipes for the face then backhands a blow Urien's aimed for his heart. Gwaine takes a great satisfaction seeing Urien's hopeful gleam fade into wariness again.

Urien swings again, a slash capable of gutting him, but instead of blocking Gwaine lunges forward, sword point out, knowing with his speed he'd connect first, and it's a game of chicken played out in infinitesimal beats of time which he wins because Urien jerks out of the attack and stumbles away.

And now he's in his head and Gwaine knows it. He takes one test-strike against the tip of Urien's sword and then goes for it. Urien's arm is still stretched out defensively and their blades slide together until the end of Gwaine's sword has made it to the base of Urien's - this is where his opponents never realize they have complete power over him - and Gwaine leers forward with a grin and twists his hand. Urien's grip is lost and Gwaine snaps back with the second sword sliding into place in his left hand.

He doesn't waste any more time, drawing both swords back to his shoulders and then unleashing a slice that aims for Urien's head and waist. The Lord ducks and rolls, coming up with the earlier knife in his hand, and eyes flicking to the side looking for escape. Gwaine's not going to let him go, though, because mercy was never invited to this reunion.

This time Gwaine goes with his left arm first, because it has less finesse, but forces Urien into a dodge which his right arm never lets him escape.

His sword settles triumphantly in Urien's neck.

* * *

Arthur wasn't sure who or what Emrys was, but it must be some sort of god considering the amount of Druids praying to it.

The Druidic god of lightning, perhaps, because that would explain this freak thunderstorm and the continual strikes that shake the land. Arthur is where he started, on the left side of the camp nearer the castle's wooden walls, and this is a dangerous spot to be if Lot decides to bring archers into this fight. He'd lost sight of Ruadan long ago, and though Arthur isn't sure what triggered this chaos, he's still thinking he may be able to stop the entire thing, somehow.

What he really wants is to find Merlin and Gwaine. He needs to know if his urge to help Ruadan is the right one. He isn't eager to blindly run out wielding Excalibur and throwing his lot in with the Druids, only to find out his father had been right all along, and that the Druids were deceitful allies. Perhaps there was a good reason Lot had corralled them here - one that Ruadan hadn't said.

He lets a lifetime of training split his focus, and he works his way through the crowd of Druids towards the camp's other side. He thinks this is where he last saw Merlin.

There's a small body in the dirt, curled with arms over their head, and Arthur detours. His hands seize their shoulders and he brings them to their terrified knees. It's just a child, and he's just about to tell them to stay behind him when another lightning bolt hits. This one sounds closer than ever, and this time, since he's protecting a child, he doesn't have a way to shield his face.

And that's how he sees Dragoon. His vision has tunneled and greyed because of the light still not done burning through his retinas, and his ears are ringing, but he _knows_ it's him. He's on his feet with his hands on Excalibur before he had decided on a plan of action. He remembers himself, and looks down but the child has disappeared. He looks up, and Dragoon has not.

His feet are moving forward, because Arthur is not going to let this chance go to waste. No matter how he may feel about his father's actions now, that doesn't change the fact that this old man killed a king. Supposed accident or not, Dragoon had ran, and he had been in the wind for more than a year.

Arthur expects piles of bodies, and while there are some thrown before Dragoon, there aren't many. The lightning has served a good tool in furrowing a trench of burned dirt between both groups, but it hasn't stopped arrows and flung magic, nor the clashes that happen on the borders out of the old man's sight.

As he gets even closer the wind gets harder to bear against, and it whips through his clothes laced with ice. It's here where he can't believe it anymore. How could Dragoon have all this power, but not be able to heal a simple knife wound? Arthur feels like he's fighting a mountain, and he hasn't even faced the man yet.

Excalibur comes gleaming out of its sheath, and it pierces through the whistling wind before him. " _Dragoon!"_ he bellows, but the words fall back into his face. Arthur struggles another few steps but then there's another crack of lightning, and he's literally thrown to the ground. Excalibur flies from his hand and he hits the dirt hard. He doesn't notice that rocks that dig into his palm and draw spots of blood, but nearly simultaneously everything stops.

Arthur rolls to his feet, grasping his sword and swinging it into the space between he and the sorcerer. "Dragoon," he says, this time heard, "stop this madness," because, to Arthur, it only looks like this old man is the cause of all of this strife. "Your actions today have dictated once and for all the danger you are to these lands. You will see justice in Camelot's vaults."

The air starts to shake, and the shouts of the battle become shrieks of surprise. The sorcerer turns, his old voice wavers, "Arthur," and Dragoon's body is rigid and his face is—

 _Horrified._

Then Dragoon is gone in a whip of darkness, and where he stood remains the shimmering air. It's a wall that's stretching the length of the field, partially dividing most of the Druids from most of Lot's guards. It's not enough to save everyone, but it's enough to turn the feet of many of the Druids and send them fleeing for the forest.

There are whoops and hollers, still the sounds of clashing weapons and the crackle of magic, but now the rush of adrenaline is for flight and not fight, and suddenly Merlin's hand has latched onto his wrist. Arthur's immediately relieved, and he looks into Merlin's eyes expecting explanation or worry or determination, but they're blank.

Merlin tears them away, and the Druids are already running with them.

By some miracle, and Arthur isn't sure if it's from luck or Merlin's subtle tugs, they find Gwaine far after the treeline. The knight has two swords, one bloody, and no injuries. Gwaine's eyes scan over Arthur and then swing to Merlin, and Arthur is aware that they then flash through wary, overwhelmed, nothingness, and then concern.

Then Gwaine is all order again and he says, "We have to move." Arthur agrees.

And still, Merlin says nothing.

* * *

" _Hercules" sung by Sara Bareilles_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Engerd is a canon town in Essetir that Merlin and Arthur visited in 2.13 "The Last Dragonlord". Hunith also mentions it in P1: Lucky Charms.  
(2) Essetir's castle is based on the ruins of Biggleswade Castle, which are in a similar region as Essetir.  
(3) Urien, not so canon. He's the disdainful, antagonistic lord of Ealdor, and as Arthur mentioned, he also fought in the Tournament of Camelot. (P1: Lucky Charms, and P1: Itsy Bitsy Spiders).  
(4) Sefa and her father Ruadan - canon! 5.1 and 5.2 "Arthur's Bane".  
(5) Turnip lanterns are the original jack o' lanterns, but I more did them for fun rather than something historically accurate. Samhain is Halloween, gotta do something tongue-in-cheek.  
(6) Merlin vaguely mentions the Battle of Arderydd, in this story where Uther and Co. massacre an army of Druids with the help of Eancanah. Merlin saw the battle from magic's perspective (P1: Magic Incarnate). He also mentions a crack in his veil, which is explained thoroughly in P2: Matchmaker's Return Policy.

 **Author's Note:  
**

I got Merlin's hopes up just to destroy them.

I consider this chapter the finale of the first third of the story, so it gets a closing credits song.

Huge amounts of thanks to the people that reviewed this week. I apologize for posting a bit late, but I've been out of state. You are all wonderful parts of my day, and seeing a new review is literal inspiration. Many people mentioned that Morgana shouldn't be underestimating the Leshy, and that made me smile. Not saying anything more though. PMs inbound for all of you later tonight or tomorrow morning when I get home, and as for my lovely ladies, Jewels, thank you for making me cry with laughter over Alt-J's "Leon". I now have a soundtrack for my FLeon ship. And Linorien, you truly are an outstanding beta. Thank you for telling me where to fleshen out the descriptions this time.

 **Next Time:** Let's Play Telephone. Morgana, Gwaine, Arthur, and Merlin are all on the receiving end of someone else's secondhand secret, and the Round Table deals with the fallout of Essetir's battle.


	8. Let's Play Telephone

—

 **Let's Play Telephone  
** _7 - 4 Nones of November_

The bugs are eating her alive.

She feels a tickle under her nostril and slams a hand into her face, coming away with a smear of white and tiny crumpled legs. She grits her teeth and prevents a shriek of frustration. This isn't the first small spider she's seen taking residence in her hair, and she knows they all come from the tree-freak.

She flicks her green eyes to the side and glares at the thing, blaming it while she believes it cannot see her. They are on another one of its terrible walks, and they've traveled through looping trails going nowhere, and she's sick of the slow pace and conversation about plants. It doesn't help that the winter iris' are starting to bloom, and they remind her of her childhood.

The Leshy - she knows its name now, it doesn't help her bitterness - is more troublesome than she's expected. While in its lair it is taller than the tallest trees, and as they move away it shrinks into a faerie no larger than her palm. When she'd first learned this, she had sneered and thought it a fool for trusting her. She had thought she could simply crush it in her palm, or even escape it with long strides. Instead, she'd wasted magic blasting fruitlessly at somehow empty branches, and then many hunger-filled days walking dizzying paths only to arrive back in its prison. The thought of its smirk still made a war's drum pound through her skull.

Maybe they're finally on their way back, she thinks bitterly. Her head now comes to its shoulder, and she's certain they'd shared the same height not long ago. But as she's watching, its arm snaps out with bramble fingers and snares her bicep in a monstrous grasp. It tugs her closer, and she puts a palm out to its chest, then watches a beetle skitter across her hand as she fruitlessly pushes against its strength.

Fire is sounding good, again.

Branches rapidly take root around her, and she rears back with her magic, ready to blast a wave forward, and the Leshy speaks in its gravelly voice. "Peace, little witch."

She would fight just to spite it, but she hears the echo of something in the forest a moment after, and her heart leaping in exhilaration shuts her up. No matter who or what it is, it has made the Leshy hide her, and that only belies an opportunity to exploit. "Hallo!" She yells, then grins blindly at her captor, "Over here!"

She hears an answering call, and her smirk grows wider. Instantly the Leshy's grip on her tightens. "You can't escape me here," it says. "I rule this forest."

"I just want human company," she replies, but she's gloating so obviously that she's proven disingenuous even as the words leave her mouth.

"I don't grant wishes," it rasps, "I trade." It's long fingers uncurl from her body, and the Leshy steps backwards, its grotesque features blending into the shadows of taller trees. "If I allow you this, then you will be in my debt."

Her eyes narrow at the challenge, but underneath a wariness takes root. She's left alone, as alone as she can be with a forest creature watching her from out of view, and she's just lifting a hand to lilt over growing bruises when a girly call puts her focus on her guests. A wide-eyed, wispy-haired female peers at her from behind foliage, and Morgana almost blasts her stupid face away. Despite a lack of proper human contact for months, she nearly can't abide an ugly, innocent fool.

An elder man comes into view soon after, though, and his sharp eyes scan her without pausing in his stride. He's before her, silvered beard and black cloak, then respectfully inclining his head before she's able to read that he's a sorcerer. "It's an honor, High Priestess."

How to treat a vassal comes instinctively, "Rise, friend." And then, trying not to seem eager, "Who are you? Where are you going?"

"We are Ruadan, a leader among Druids, and Sefa, a daughter," he replies. "We go nowhere but West."

"What's west?"

"The only partially free Druid camp in Albion."

The daughter speaks up, and again Morgana has an urge to blast her away. "King Arthur has opened the borders for us."

"It's a ruse," she snaps immediately. "He's a cheat like his father."

Sefa looks hurt. "But where will we go?"

"You may temporarily borrow my living space," she answers, gesturing magnanimously. Her disdainful turn ruins the effect, though. "I'll provide food and shelter, but in return I'll hear more on this year's events. I'm curious now on what brother-dearest has been up to."

Morgana saunters away, not truly in any known direction. It's disgusting, but true, that she can't yet escape the Leshy. She knows its maze magic will lead her back to her jail, but now she knows at least these Druids will be there with her.

She hears silence from behind her, but she expects it's due to the girl looking stupidly at Ruadan while he makes the decision for both of them. A moment after she hears their footsteps following, and a wicked smirk worms comfortably home on her features.

 _Soon,_ she reminds herself.

 _My throne is waiting._

* * *

Arthur did not find the throne of Camelot an extremely comfortable piece of furniture, but, then again, he figured it wasn't meant to be.

He curled his hands tighter around the metal arm rests, and the condensation built up from his own skin made his palms feel clammy. He didn't usually sit here while waiting for the Round Table to show up, but he had the time, and he thought it might help him think like a king.

What did 'a king' think like? Arthur wasn't sure where the line blurred between the kings he'd met himself, and the faceless man he sometimes saw in his mind's eye. Ideally, he thought, that king would be objective and selfless in the turning points of his reign. Unfortunately, Arthur felt like he'd had more success leading from his heart, and he wasn't sure how many of his heart's current desires were truly the best for Camelot.

He did know this, and he was loathe to admit it: he was afraid. He knew the decisions he went with after today could be just as disastrous as when he'd swung his sword down onto Caerleon's neck. If he didn't make the right choice, half of his knights could end up dead in another explosion of tensions with Druids he'd already freely invited into his borders. Sitting alone in this stiff, high-backed chair and looking down the long hallway to the wide doors of the throne room, it was easy to imagine Camelot spread out before him - a reminder of everything that hung in the balance.

And because he wasn't so wonderful at being objective, he saw that balance as somewhere between the black-swathed funerals after Morgana's attack, and Elyan's easy smiles with the Druid teen who loved him like a brother. It tilted precariously between the memory of Dragoon's back as he called lightning from the sky, and the genuine emotion when his best friend had said "I'm proud of you". Eventually, everything was going to fall one way or the other.

A door clicked behind him, and he recognized Guinevere's footsteps as she approached unhurriedly. When she reached his elbow, he titled his head to see her arching an elegant eyebrow at him. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Just me chasing my own tail," Arthur relaxed at her coy smile, standing and stretching. "I'm trying to decide what to do about the Druids."

"You don't have to decide right now," Guinevere responded calmly. "That's why you called the meeting. We'll find out what's best, together."

He wrapped an arm tightly around her waist and pressed a kiss to her cheek; she immediately giggled, and Merlin's unmistakable voice said, "Get a room."

Merlin was entering the throne room with his guardian in tow, and Arthur sent him a flinty glare with promise of retribution. But then, with perfect timing, Gaius slapped Merlin in the back of the head.

"Ah, Gaius," Arthur grinned at Merlin's look of betrayal, "I've missed your council."

* * *

The four knights arrived not long after, and they all gathered at the Round Table, sans Merlin per usual, who stood off to the side. Arthur cleared his throat.

"I've called this meeting because we need to discuss the riot in Essetir, and how we can prevent similar tensions from arising here in Camelot." He turned to Leon. "You've been gathering reports since my birthday. What do you know about the general mood of the kingdom?"

Leon steepled his fingers. "Most of those reports were from before Samhain," he warned. "Villages range from a strong hatred of opening their businesses to traveling Druids, to an apathetic outlook. They don't believe the Druids affect them. I rarely heard rumors about violence, like the burning of the witch. As for the Druids themselves…" he trailed off. Almost guiltily, he glanced to the side. "Forridel gave me the best insight on accident. I believe the Druids trust you, but not whole-heartedly. They are likely waiting, and perhaps even prepared, for you to go back on your word."

Arthur nodded, accepting the facts for now without comment. He shifted his gaze between Gwaine and Merlin. "I want a better explanation of what you both saw while we were separated. Try for details this time."

Merlin began, re-explaining for the table what he'd already told Arthur about how long the Druids had been held like criminals, and the argument that had resulted in a Druid woman's injury and the death of two of Lot's guards. Again, though, Merlin ended his story abruptly with, "then I lost sight of Gwaine and started looking for you."

Arthur held up a hand to temporarily stop Gwaine from filling in his own gaps. "Whenever I hear this story, I think that deaths could have been avoided. But Lot was insensitive, and the Druids aren't going to soon forget history." He hoped the fatigue didn't show on his face. "One day I'll make a similar mistake, so how do I prevent Iseldir's camp from causing the same violence?"

In a rush Gwaine said, "I don't think it's fair to say it's _all_ the Druid's fault."

 _That's not what I'm saying,_ Arthur scowled mentally, but Elyan interrupted soon after with, "We were proven wrong again about Druid culture essentially being peaceful. If we're wrong about Iseldir, or anyone that joins him, there would be an army just half a day's ride from here."

"I believe, sire," Gaius said, "that it will only cause tensions if you were to impose restrictions on Iseldir's camp."

Arthur frowned. He had been toying with that idea, but now he realized that limiting the camp's size would require sending knights to enforce the change, which would result in nearly the exact same problem. "So what do I do? I can't do nothing. Everything will explode in our faces."

"This is like the war we almost had with Caerleon," Percival said intuitively.

Arthur looked at him with surprise, and Guinevere gasped in excitement. "He's right. Things escalated until you and Annis publically came to an agreement. Perhaps you and Iseldir—"

"Iseldir _is_ highly respected," Gaius agreed.

He puzzled over this, slowly shaking his head. "He is respected, but he isn't extremely well known. Ruadan - he's a Druid leader I met in Essetir - didn't know of him." Guinevere deflated, disappointed that her idea hadn't helped. "But, they all seem to know an Emrys."

Merlin sucked in an involuntary sharp breath, and Arthur misinterpreted it. "You noticed too?"

Merlin didn't look like he would be answering, in fact he looked a little pale, and Gwaine muttered in his stead, "Yeah, I noticed."

Arthur flicked his attention to Gaius, figuring he'd have the best knowledge of Druid culture. He usually had the answers to most things magical. "What's Emrys?"

The elder physician looked supremely uncomfortable. "I only have secondhand knowledge, sire," he started, but Arthur waved him on. "Emrys is a man…" Gaius faltered. "He is a legend. During the Purge, stories of his rise began to circulate." When no one stopped him, he continued carefully. "Many Druids believe he will be the most powerful warlock to ever exist."

"Most _what?_ " Gwaine barked, then slammed a hand over his mouth.

Gaius looked nervous again, and Arthur observed, "So, Emrys is their hope."

Arthur's features rearranged, and he seemed to forget where he was. He focused intently on the pattern of the table's wood and pondered his thoughts silently and alone. It was these moments that one remembered that Arthur - the man loved as a husband, a friend, or a brother - was a king. He was a king perhaps already worthy of legends of his own.

"What stopped the war with Annis wasn't just our deal. I paid for my sins by fighting to the death. I began to earn her respect by sparing her champion." He quickly squeezed Guinevere's hand and then pressed his palms to the table and stood tall. "I _have_ made peace with Iseldir, despite our history. Still, as the King of Camelot, I have my father's sins to pay for as well." Arthur paused, and his thoughts were hidden from them for another while. "We are going to announce a trial."

"Surely not for yourself, sire?" Gaius said, aghast.

"No," Arthur corrected. "For the Purge."

The room _lurched._ Expressions were thrown around the table, met with various reactions, but it was Leon who eventually said, "And what will that entail?"

"I'm not certain," Arthur replied. "But I know I have some questions for Emrys, and I'm sure he has questions for me."

"And you're sure he exists?" Elyan asked dubiously, with a nod of equal confusion from Percival.

Arthur nodded sharply. "I'm sure of it."

* * *

Details were discussed, and plans hesitantly finalized. It was decided that the trial would take place on the Ides of March - it seemed a good a date as any, and it would likely have warmed by then. Plus, it gave them an abundant amount of time to get word spreading.

Merlin, from his position slightly behind Arthur, remained mostly silent. It was not because of a fear for his own safety, or even so much Arthur's potential reaction to his manservant's countless secrets. He had been blindsided by a truth he hadn't properly faced before.

Regardless of his own or Arthur's feelings, he had realized the real question would always be: Was _Albion_ ready for magic?

The answer: _Not yet,_ was a shock to his system.

Sooner than he was ready for it, the meeting was over and a hand had latched onto his forearm. Merlin looked up to see Arthur acting like it wasn't him doing it, and then Arthur let him go and strode away. Still disconcerted, Merlin muttered an excuse about polishing shoes and slipped off after him.

Not long later, Merlin inched open the door to the Hall of Ceremonies and then paused. A tall pane of stained glass forming the Pendragon crest hung over Arthur's golden head, and the king's blue eyes were focused directly at it. But when Merlin let the door click shut behind him, those eyes turned to him.

"Merlin, sometimes I think you're the only one I really trust."

If he'd ever wondered what pain and pleasure slammed together felt like, now he knew. "Gwen and the knights would do anything for you."

"This is going to sound crazy," Arthur frowned, "well, I can't really explain it. But I don't think you're understanding what I'm thinking."

"Thinking, Arthur? That's fresh," Merlin replied without any bite. He wasn't even close to certain, but he thought perhaps Arthur was thinking something similar to what Merlin had realized in the throne room. All that talk about sides of coins and legendary titles had helped him _know_ that they could bring a golden age, but he had finally _felt_ what that meant. This prophecy wasn't just on his shoulders. He and Arthur had carried that burden together, and they always would.

"You didn't say much," Arthur said. "I need to know what you think about my decision."

"I think you're incredibly brave," he answered immediately, and with total honesty. "You thought of something that I don't think I ever would have, at least, not exactly." Merlin hesitated, but decided to just come out with it. "Magic deserves a right to defend itself."

Merlin had known Arthur long enough to recognize his relief, even if it was well suppressed. Arthur's immediate worry faded away, but in its place grew the second that Merlin had relit. Abruptly, Arthur said, "Magic has taken my entire family." He reiterated, "Emrys killed my father."

Merlin's body tensed, but then he realized Arthur wasn't angry. He was stating what he believed were facts, and he was looking to Merlin for interpretation. "Is that why you're goading him here?"

"I've been told enough times that he didn't do it on purpose," Arthur said. "Gaius showed me some amulet and explained something about magic reversal after the funeral."

Merlin jolted, he hadn't known Gaius had defended him.

"I've had his face burned into my mind for over a year," Arthur said again. "Ample time to demonize him. But when I saw him in Essetir…" Arthur took a deep breath and turned his eyes away. In a rush of truthfulness he professed, "he didn't hate me. Now I believe he did try to help my father. But…" Arthur paused, and then his face hardened minutely. "Do you think he regrets failing?"

"I…" Merlin started and then stopped short. _Do I regret it?_ His stomach twisted in a regretful knot and he swallowed his defense. He had been glad to see Uther go; he was just upset that it had to be by magic's hand, and that Arthur had been there to see it. "I guess you'll find out on the Ides."

"I guess I will," Arthur agreed absently. Then returning his trusting gaze to Merlin he said, "I haven't told anyone that Dragoon is the Druids' Emrys." Merlin's mouth opened, unsure what he was going to say, but Arthur continued before he had a chance to decide. "I also know that there is a Druid spy in Camelot."

Merlin balked, mind whirling. "Who?"

"I don't know _who_ ," Arthur snapped, but then softened, "I was hoping you could watch for me." He cleared his throat. "The trial has to go through, but, I don't want to be caught too far off guard in March."

This was surreal. Emrys and Druid spies, and Merlin steadily recognized that it was he that fit both categories. This was almost ridiculous. He should tell the truth - immediately. This was his opportunity. No one was around to overhear, and he and Arthur could decide how to handle the trial together, and he would no longer have to watch Arthur worry.

Something held him back, though. Thin, yet unbreakable strands of… _responsibility._ Arthur was _right_. Merlin's, Uther's, Morgana's, _everyone_ 's failures had to be faced. They couldn't sweep them under a rug with one hand and wave in an era of gold with the other.

A part of him wanted to be held accountable for his actions, without a shared history to color the argument, and even deeper down, Merlin wanted to defend magic. He didn't want to apologize for something he considered an extension of his own soul. He didn't want to make a farce out of a fight that he and Arthur needed to have - regardless of destiny, regardless of friendship.

"Arthur," Merlin said steadily, "I will help you however I can, but in March—" He held out a hand for Arthur to shake, and Arthur did grip his forearm tightly. And even if Arthur's reasons were completely different, Merlin only tightened his hold. "In March, you are going to represent Camelot alone. Defend her with your whole heart."

Their gazes locked, and the wordless something that they both had only begun to fully recognize passed between them.

"Defend her as the Once and Future King that I know you are."

* * *

Gwaine left Percival and Elyan with the promise of joining them shortly. Their job was to grab seats at the Rising Sun tavern and inn, while his was to track down Merlin and drag him there to join them. These first few days of winter had been stressful enough, and he direly needed a break. And if _he_ felt that way, then surely Merlin was even worse off.

After quickly ditching his heavy chainmail in the barracks, he stalked through the castle half wishing he had a Merlin-tracker akin to his friend's Arthur-tracker. He had been blown away on Arthur's birthday when Merlin had taken off unerringly towards the barrows while casting some magical hoopla on his sword, but now he wanted to snort at the old-Gwaine who had been impressed by what were apparently party tricks. Merlin could pull lightning down from the sky, and he could probably do a lot more if it weren't for the kicker - Merlin had no desire to throw his weight around.

Gwaine heard voices coming from the Hall of Ceremonies, and he veered towards it. Merlin was probably in there right now, supporting Arthur, and not caring that the trial could potentially result in a call for his own execution. _Well,_ Gwaine realized derisively, _perhaps the threat of execution is old news for him._

He knew it would be better to knock, but he shoved the doors open without preamble because he knew it would be out of character not to. He had guessed right, and Merlin and Arthur were the sole occupants, and currently they looked quite pleased with each other. Gwaine slouched against the doorframe, stuffing his hands into his pockets and feeling the crinkle of paper. It reminded him of something else that had been subtly bothering him, and he took a moment to sulk as he realized that his misery likely wouldn't have any company.

He hid it quickly, though. "You lovebirds done? Round Table afterparty at the Rising Sun."

Merlin reacted instantly, smiling winningly. "We'll be done after I get my goodnight kiss." He barely leaned in an inch before Arthur had bodily shoved him away.

"Never do that again," was all the wit Arthur could manage.

"One of these days he'll give in," Merlin sighed with a wink in Gwaine's direction.

"I'll take that bet," Arthur muttered, "and I'll win it."

* * *

Not much later, Arthur echoed those words over a cupful of dice.

The Rising Sun was boisterous, and though the King of Camelot frequenting the tavern had initially caused a stir, now the knights blended into the scenery of the dim, loud, ale-filled room. They'd found a new round table to while the hours away at, but this one resulted in far less productive discussions. Instead, Percival had started them on a game of Liar's Dice, and the competitive spirit between them all found something new to fight over.

At first Merlin had sat out, saying he didn't have the coin to risk it in a bet against them, but Gwaine had succeeded in convincing him to play as his teammate. Gwaine would sponsor the round, and Merlin would supply the luck. Gwaine grinned to himself and chortled at not having thought of this before. He was raking it in. The confused look on Elyan's face last game had been priceless.

"There is no way," Arthur was still saying, "that there are twelve rolled threes. We only have twenty die!"

"If you're so sure, call me on it," Merlin said guilelessly.

"You're a horrible liar," Arthur continued, perhaps trying to convince himself. "You have to at least be believable. You're just being preposterous right now."

"But I really do believe there are twelve threes on this table," Merlin smiled, and Gwaine barked with laughter. Arthur had narrowed his eyes, trying to catch a tell on Merlin's face but was obviously coming up frustratingly empty.

"Only an idiot would believe that!"

"Then call his bluff," Elyan chuckled, "or give in and start the round of fours."

"I'm not giving in," Arthur grumbled. His head snapped to Percival. "How many threes do you have?"

"I'm not going to tell you," Percival grinned, and then did a fair job of not flinching as Arthur focused intently on him while guessing amounts.

"Two," Arthur settled on with a smug expression. "And I know how many I have, and I'm fairly certain about Elyan." His eyes traveled over Elyan suspiciously before returning to Merlin and Gwaine's cup. "Which proves that you are absolutely wrong, as usual!"

"Not if all his die are threes," Gwaine said cheekily. While not playing, he was thoroughly enjoying egging on the strife.

"Then why did he bet there were so many ones earlier? There's no way he had threes all along!"

"It's called a long con," Elyan laughed.

"Merlin can't plan that far ahead," Arthur snorted, "he barely plans breakfast."

"I do so," Merlin scoffed. "I plan not to give you any."

Arthur's scowl made the quip all the greater, and tears began to leak from the corners of Percival's eyes as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Just admit you're lying, _Mer_ lin, so we can move on!"

"Why can't you just trust me?" Merlin asked innocently.

"You're not tricking me again," Arthur growled. "I'm not going to guess thirteen. That's even more ridiculous than twelve." He threw a hand up in contempt. "That's it. You're a liar, Merlin, and I say there are _not_ twelve threes. Everyone lift your cups!"

Arthur lifted his cup and slammed it ferociously out of the way, Elyan and Percival following suit with a lot more restraint. The seven threes he had predicted gleamed in the low light.

Merlin toyed with his cup, eyes twinkling. They had all made the mistake of not watching him for a moment, and Merlin enjoyed riling Arthur up too much not to let his magic perform a small assist. Gwaine was already cackling before he had raised his cup the entire way, revealing his sweep of threes.

Elyan and Percival accepted their loss with good humor, and for a moment the table was quiet. Then Arthur calmly picked up one of his dice, and chucked it like a javelin at Merlin's forehead.

Merlin toppled over backwards, feet flying into the air with a stroppy yell of surprise. Arthur raged, shaking a fist. "You're a cheat, I know it!"

The argument continued with louder shouts from the king, and Percival had to hold him by the back of his tunic while Merlin hammed up his performance as the injured, put-upon servant. Gwaine ignored it to divvy up this round's winnings between he and Merlin, and the grin etched onto his face was now far from fake.

Sure, he may be finally coming to terms with all of Merlin's talk about destiny, and there may be a letter from his sister burning a hole in his breeches, and maybe this all was the calm before the trial's storm - but none of those oppressive responsibilities made this moment any less real.

This - Merlin dumping a cupful of dice down Arthur's pants while Elyan was hit by a stray projectile - epitomized why he would lay down his life for any of the men here. They were more than his brothers; they were his _real_ family.

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) I'm sort of referencing the irises Merlin gives Morgana in canon. I thought, maybe he knows she likes irises, and maybe she likes irises because they were a birthday gift as a child. (She's a November baby, and Algerian irises begin to bloom in November). Pure #ArtisticLicense, because they're not native to England.  
(2) Sorry guys but the Ides of March? It was too perfect. (Caesar deathday, in case you haven't heard that particular prophecy. Beware the Ides of March!)  
(3) Hall of Ceremonies is a real location from the set - check it out on the Merlin wiki!  
(4) I think it's season five where Merlin cheats at dice. I wanted to throw in another cameo.  
(5) Gwaine is referencing a letter from his sister, Ari. We meet her in P2: The Betas, and Merlin tries to convince Gwaine to talk to her during P2: Tramp Stamps.

 **Author's Note:**

Just so everyone knows, Forridel has so far delayed her return to Iseldir's camp. She keeps finding excuses to stay a bit longer. Perhaps unrelated, but Leon wasn't invited to the afterparty. I don't know if I'd say 'poor Leon' though. Maybe they knew he was busy. ;)

Huge thanks to the reviewers for being extra amazing this last week - three new people who read all of Part 1 extremely quickly and that just amazes and blows me away. But of course, the rest of you who have been here since the beginning I can't give enough thanks to. Then I repay you all by destroying Merlin's hope last chapter. As one reviewer said, "How cruel Requiem. How very cruel." :) I liked destroying it to rebuild it this chapter, in this completely different way. I hope you're all as hyped for the trial as I am.

I want to thank Jewels for calling Arthur a clotpole last chapter. It made me laugh, and then it made me realize how absolutely important it was for me not to go backwards. The characters are strong enough to push on, and not fall into familiar habits, and I have to respect that. Plus, she was a huge help keeping me canon as I was brainstorming about Uther's death. Linorien, you all have to bow down because she beta'd this for me in less than 24 hours. I was already late, so I'm so thankful Linorien will push things aside for me!

Finally, I'm living all my Merlin fanon fantasies. It's so fun writing this story...I highly recommend everyone try this out.

 **Next time:** Wishing on Trick Candles. It's Morgana's birthday, Merlin owes Gaius an explanation, and Gwaine gets to meet the dragons properly this time.


	9. Wishing on Trick Candles

—

 **Wishing on Trick Candles  
** _The Ides of November_

With the sun not yet risen and the fire burning low, the bitter cold of winter turned the Physician's Chambers into an icebox.

It was early for this kind of weather, but not uncommon. Gaius curled his fingers into his sleeves and pulled the fabric as far over his knuckles as it could go. The cold had woken him, and he had shifted on creaking bones to the stool near the fire, watching the snow fall through the far window. He had never been the type to fall back to sleep after waking, but these days he had even more to overwhelm his thoughts.

In the many weeks since Merlin had learned to teleport, Gaius had been left largely in the dark as to Merlin's actions and thoughts. This was such a far cry from when Merlin had first arrived in Camelot - a time when secret keeping made more than enough sense - that Gaius could only wonder at what held Merlin back from confiding in him. With each whistle of wind, his mind would flash between the stretch of horror across Merlin's face when he'd raised a hand and blasted him from the stairs, the bitterness in his voice when Merlin had condemned his treatment of magic users, and the disregard for his opinion when Merlin confessed his magic to Gwaine.

The thoughts burrowed into the furrows of his brow and wore weary new wrinkles. _What did I do wrong?_

The snow had a way of deadening sound, and that made the rustling as Merlin began to move around upstairs all the more obvious. He thought about getting up to make a quick bowl of warm oats, to give Merlin a bit of a hot meal before he ran after Arthur, but he had a hard time convincing himself that bland food would be enough to keep Merlin around.

Merlin opened the door to his room quietly, likely thinking Gaius was still asleep, and his shadowed silhouette appeared on the landing. He paused, saw Gaius huddled near the fire, and then with a flicker of gold he fueled the flames higher with a whirl of magic. The room immediately brightened, and Gaius felt the warmth on his toes.

"You're up early," he said to Merlin, watching the young man bundle himself tightly in his brown jacket. Gaius could see the form-fitting blue shirt from Caerleon peaking out underneath the red sleeves of Merlin's older tunic, and Gaius wondered if they could afford a new cloak. If winter began like this, Merlin would be blue by the end of the season.

"I'm going to put coals in Arthur's bed," Merlin explained. "And warm his dayclothes. If I don't, he'll be especially cranky by the time he goes for his meeting with the artisan's guild."

He was almost to the door when Gaius interrupted, "All that, in the dark? Wait for the sun to rise at least." Merlin wavered; he did not look eager to stay, but he was less eager to hurt his guardian. "Can we talk?"

The tone of the question was telling enough, and a flicker of guilt crossed Merlin's face. "We should, shouldn't we?" Quickly he added, "Can I get you anything? Your robe?" Nervous energy took him to the side of Gaius' cot, which he began to tidy up with servant-like efficiency once he realized Gaius was already wearing it.

"Merlin," he began, thinking he should probably start with an apology. "I was wrong to tell you to keep things from Gwaine."

Merlin sagged. "You watched a lot of people die during the Purge," he mollified. "I understand why you tried to stop me."

Gaius had not necessarily been thinking along those lines when he'd made his argument, but he couldn't refute that some of his wariness would always stem from memories of the oily smell of an early morning pyre. "Is that why you haven't told me about your choice in Essetir?"

"My choice?" Merlin prickled. "It wasn't much of a choice. I couldn't watch them die. They were counting on me."

What was odd in the words was the lack of idealism and certainty. There was no doubt Merlin believed what he said, but his charge's voice had colored with a spite Gaius had rarely heard directed at him before. Again, he wondered, "What did I do?"

Merlin put his face in his hands and sat on the cot, wrinkling the freshly made sheets. When he did finally speak he didn't answer the question, instead bringing up something that had happened years ago. "Do you remember when we argued about how to help Morgana with her magic?" He nodded, and Merlin plowed on. "I took her to the Druids. Uther arrested and killed Camelot's citizens, and Arthur and his squad slaughtered almost everyone in the camp." Merlin took a deep breath. "You never condemned me for it."

Gaius was confused. "It wasn't your fault."

"It was _entirely_ my fault," Merlin swiftly replied. "Whether it was through bad decisions or inaction, I propelled nearly every step of that tragedy. I've realized that now. I also think you've been making excuses for your own actions for so long, that you _can't_ realize that anymore."

Gaius drew himself up, trying to deflect the hurt that came with the nearly rude attack on his character. "We may not agree on everything, but that does not give you a reason to speak to me that way."

"I know you killed Wendol."

Shock and confusion filled him. _No one_ knew that, though many remembered Wendol - the greatest Druid leader of his time, and the last hope against Uther and his Purge. Someone Gaius had held in his arms as he died, a friend whose eyes had been wide and scared and betrayed.

Merlin did not keep the truth in much longer after that revelation. It spilled from his lips in a torrent. It began with losing Gilli in Amata, and it continued into the horror of the Eancanah and watching Gaius plunge a knife into his throat, the horror of waking to find him standing in his doorway. He explained the parallels in Essetir and knowing he could not have stood by and watched a second massacre.

" _Merlin,"_ Gaius breathed, only to be ignored as the young man culminated with, "Magic deserves a champion, and if that's what I'm _supposed_ to be, then it's only _right_ that... at the trial that... I _should_ be there as Emrys and I should stop hiding on the sidelines…."

Merlin stuttered off, finally exhausted, but Gaius didn't know where to start. He wanted to explain his actions during the Purge, to apologize, it had been such a trying time and so many people had been dying, and he had lost so many of those he loved dearly... but instead he answered with what Merlin really needed to hear. Acceptance, and support, that the decisions Merlin had made, and would continue to make, were good ones.

Eventually he had admitted to the guilt that had never left him, so many past events now stains on his soul, and Merlin had responded not with acceptance or forgiveness, but an understanding so wise that Gaius was forced to look at him with new eyes.

They had lived so many years together, and he had seen the boy grow into a young man, in that time learning all the different ways he could care for his charge. And while he would always care, it became more apparent every day that Merlin was becoming less of a charge. He was becoming something else.

By the time the sun had risen, Merlin had graced him with a genuine, brilliant smile and warmed the room again with a surge of magic. As he left to tend to Arthur, his gait had been unhurried - the walk of someone who did not fear new threats. Gaius remained by the fire much longer than he had ever intended, letting the revelation wash over him.

Merlin, the boy who had so foolishly saved an old man from a tall ladder, and the young man who had volunteered to struggle nearly every day since, was becoming a figure one marveled at.

Before Gaius' eyes, Merlin had become a legend.

* * *

Though in Gwaine's eyes, the legend bit was a tad more disconcerting.

The rogue stood before one of the many bloodstained and ransacked homes that had remained empty despite the reclamation of the city, but now the worst of the holes had been covered by thick pelts, and a puff of smoke drifted from the flute while trying to push away the cold. Forridel had relocated here when the winter had worsened, and Gwaine had relocated to her doorstep when his curiosity had become unbearable.

The rogue rubbed at his nose and shifted in the snow. He was more unsure of how to phrase his questions than intimidated by the woman who made even the Captain of the Guard quail at times. At least, that's what he told himself.

He gathered the pluck to knock, but was distracted by a familiar voice calling, "You are so predictable."

Gwaine turned and saw Merlin huddled into his jacket as snow fell heavily on his shoulders. "Between the two of us, someone has to be."

Merlin grinned sheepishly. "I had a long talk with Gaius this morning, and I realized that I owe you a thorough explanation too. Want to ditch your duties for the afternoon?"

Gwaine beamed, "It's one of my favorite things to do." He fell into step beside his friend and noticed they were walking for the exit to the city. "We picking herbs?"

"And you said I wasn't predictable," Merlin said drily. They nodded to the guards at the front gate and then veered quickly for the forest path that led eastward. When they were certainly out of earshot, Merlin continued, "What were you going to ask Forridel?"

Gwaine shrugged, "I wanted to hear her version of this Emrys story. Gaius' comments gave me an out of body experience."

Merlin chuckled. "There isn't much to it. It's probably exaggerated," he said humbly. "Mordred," he faltered, "that's a different story, but he was a young Druid, and the first person to ever call me Emrys. At the time I didn't know what he meant. But the title and Kilgharrah's prophecies, when squished together, must be what the Druids are expecting."

"The prophecy - where you make magic legal again?"

"That, a Golden Age, and peace in Albion; altogether, nothing much," Merlin said flippantly, then winked.

Gwaine rolled his eyes. "Right, not daunting at all for 'the most powerful warlock to ever exist.'" His arms dropped after physically quoting the phrase, and his eyes shifted sidelong.

"Are you the best swordsman in Albion?"

"Yes," Gwaine replied immediately, then laughed when Merlin called him insufferable. But Gwaine got the gist of what he meant by the question. Merlin hadn't met his match yet - but that didn't mean he wouldn't someday. Gwaine didn't put much stock in fortunetelling, so he was happier with this interpretation of facts.

They arrived in the infamous clearing, and Merlin roared at the sky without warning. Gwaine flinched and covered his ears, "Warn a guy next time!" Then, with more trepidation, "Are you sure the dragon wants me here? He wasn't so happy last time."

"He'll get over it," Merlin said placidly. He pressed his palms together, and when he pulled them apart a ball of flame rolled in the space between. He jerked his head to bring Gwaine closer, and together they warmed their hands until the dragons arrived.

For that long while, the only noticeable movement in the field was the flicker of light from Merlin's magic. It was like a small sun held suspended in the palms of his hands, and Gwaine found himself lost watching it. He wondered if this sort of easy control came from the simplicity of the spell, or something innately Merlin.

He was inclined to believe the latter, though not for the same reasons as the Druids. Those privy to that particular Merlin Mystery may believe his friend was some Prophetic Incarnation only fully realized underneath the glow of lightning and the invisible hand of the Triple Goddess, but Gwaine knew different. Merlin had worked hard for everything he'd publically gained, and surely that was no different when it came to his more hidden talents. It seemed, to Gwaine at least, that Merlin hadn't stumbled upon the title of Emrys - that he had earned it, painstakingly.

The instant disappearance of the fire shook Gwaine back to reality, and he looked up to follow Merlin's line of sight. The sky was a blinding white, and the golden dragon diving towards them out of those thickened clouds was a different sort of magical sun.

Aithusa was nearly invisible, and Merlin didn't quite catch hold of her until the dragons had neared the treetops. When the baby dragon landed in a flurry of snowflakes, her snout immediately burrowed into his pockets. Merlin grinned, pleased he'd picked a treat she'd enjoy - a meat pie pilfered from the lunch tray provided for Arthur's meeting. As he tossed the pie into the air, a jet of white hot flame boiled forward, roasting the morsel before Aithusa's jaws snapped closed around it.

Kilgharrah, with snide disdain: "You never brought me food."

"I couldn't fit a deer in my pocket," Merlin countered.

The Great Dragon flicked his tail in growing irritation, not for lack of snack, but for a missing meekness in his dragonlord. He was owed explanation and apology, and Merlin was not forthcoming.

Kilgharrah had not swayed from his duty. Aithusa's spine had been straightened, and one of her crippled limbs neared normality. He was old, growing exhausted from difficult magic combined with a rebellious youngling needing necessary lectures and flight lessons. Merlin, however, had failed him - ignored well-outlined advice in favor of following a heart that, in Kilgharrah's opinion, had often lain wrong.

"Kill the witch, defend the king! It is not so hard, Merlin!" The dragon spat the words, nostrils flaring. This was far from non-sequitur, because Merlin had provided plenty of days for him to see the effects of the battle in Essetir, and certainly there was no other reason to have been called here. "You have erred in both tasks, again!"

After this outburst the clearing went eerily silent. All in the party were peripherally conscious to Aithusa's completion of sniffing through Merlin's pockets, and then careful plodding over to Gwaine's. Her one unmoving leg made strange tracks in the snow, and Merlin, very deliberately, squared his shoulders.

In response, Kilgharrah snarled. "The Druids are scattered to the seven winds, and sentiment moves against them. You have endangered your destiny. No leader of Albion will sacrifice their status quo knowing a new deadly threat hides in the shadows."

"I'm not hiding," Merlin refuted, slowly crossing his arms. "I'm waiting. The trial is in March, and Emrys will be there."

Kilgharrah's pupils shrunk into reptilian slits, and he bore down on his dragonlord in a way he had not done since his days in prison. "I am unfortunately unsurprised that you have left your fate to the whim of a noble court."

Though, these many years later, Merlin did not quail. He met Kilgharrah's imposition with equal challenge. "What do you propose I had done then?"

The great dragon's tail slammed without impunity into the ground, turning a layer of snow into a low-lying fog. Long before it had time to settle his words were snapping forward, biting, harsh, and full of aggravation, an aggravation borne perhaps from a sense of impotence. "Kill the witch when she was yet weak - not defend a people destined to one day ride with Mordred against you!"

"Defending the Druids does not turn me from Arthur," Merlin adamantly refuted, but for the second time that day left the question of Morgana ignored. "The Druids are mostly innocent. It would be wrong to condemn them for something they have not done, and might not do."

"Something they _will_ do."

"That is your opinion, drakon," Merlin snapped quietly, and Kilgharrah's ire built into a rage.

" _What do you know of destiny compared to me?"_

Kilgharrah had slipped into dragon tongue, and the words made Aithusa look up from Gwaine's pockets and snort. Then her face scrunched up and she sneezed, melting all the snow near the knight's feet in a blast of heat that made him leap nearly a yard in the air.

It may not have been enough to calm the great dragon, but it did worm a fond smile onto Merlin's face. "Destiny," he intoned almost wistfully, and it was a subject that had not been far from his mind for many weeks now, "she's an elusive woman I've never been able to quite satisfy. What if she has no idea what she wants either?" Starkly he added, voice quiet alongside the fresh fall of snow. "What if she doesn't even exist?"

Kilgharrah seemed too livid to speak, and as they stood on this new impasse the snow became a storm that spilled flakes so thick that they blinded. As the white clung to his lashes Merlin revisited the thoughts that had brought him to the dragons in the first place, notions that had already tentatively linked to these once well-buried questions on the trueness of 'fate'.

At the behest of destiny Merlin had made enemies of Morgana and Mordred, but now he supposed it had not been fate that forced his hand, but naivety.

More quietly now, he accepted something that he'd begun to realize in the face of Lot's guards. It was time for him to do what Albion needed _now,_ rather than buoying ideas long in need of sinking. Kilgharrah, though, was far from agreeing with his methods, and this left Merlin struggling to decide how he was going to do this without his old friend's help.

A chirp at his feet and the warmth of Aithusa's small body leaning against his legs pulled a risky thought to the forefront, and he bent carefully to press a hand to her cheek. In the dragon tongue he murmured to her, " _You were brave to save someone so dangerous, Light of the Sun."_

Her mind lilted over an old image of Morgana bleeding out in the forest, and then the storm he'd called onto Essetir from her perspective in Kilgharrah's cave.

He softly stroked her face, already regretting the peril he would put her in for asking this. " _There are many Druids fleeing from the East, and they have no one to help them."_ Her head tilted, blue eyes wide, trusting, and quizzical. " _Promise me that if you do this, you will still return to Kilgharrah as often as you can. Only he can heal you completely."_ She nudged him, pushing him to continue despite the warning, and he sighed.

Then, as Kilgharrah glowered at him from several feet away, and Gwaine shifted closer with his red cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders, Merlin wove for the little dragon the image of the magic held within the hall he'd built beneath Iseldir's camp.

There was a safe place in Camelot for all those displaced people - a home for them that, this time, he _would_ protect.

* * *

Merlin could not have realized how this nearly rebellious, perhaps revolutionary, but certainly life-changing decision would affect Morgana's sense of self-righteousness.

She's heard the news by now, of course, from Ruadan. (She mostly ignores the words from the oblivious child; stupidity does not make a trustworthy source.) Emrys - the heathen - bringing lightning down against Lot's men confuses her until she also hears about Arthur's presence in the camp. The traitor Emrys always did dog brother-dearest's shadow.

She remains wary, however. The thought of lightning being brought against her is a worrisome one. She is not sure she has the power to defend against it. The echo of the Cailleach's words begin to ring in her ears again, and her left hand clamps around her bare right wrist.

This is not an altogether strange motion, but it is one Morgana does not realize she does. It is a habit she picked up two years ago while alone in Camelot once more, then with only her sister's bracelet to remind her of the truth: Uther was an evil tyrant, magic deserved to be free, she was the rightful heir - and she was not alone in the battle to bring these truths to light.

She and Morgause had fought the hard war, the unpaved path for those who alone know the truth. In the beginning, when some actions had felt so very wrong, the bracelet reminded her just how right she was. Then Morgause had died, Emrys became her Doom, and she had fled into a hut. But still, she had known the real truth: Arthur was a copycat king, magic deserved to be free, and she was the rightful heir - though she was alone. Nonetheless that only meant the responsibility to set things right had been solely on her shoulders.

But Emrys defending the Druids instead of sneaking off with his boy-king does not fit into this theory, and she flounders while cinching her fingers more tightly against her wrist.

The fool - of course - misunderstands. She purses her stupid lips in Morgana's personal space and asks, "Are you cold? Come nearer the fire."

The girl has a way of instantly riling her emotions. Morgana sneers, " _If_ I were cold, then I would not need _you_ to tell me what to do." She feels like she can get away with this level of heat because Ruadan is out hunting. Morgana is hoping for hare.

"You're very pale, and your lips are tinged with blue, my lady." Sefa holds out a bundle of green cloth. "At least wear your gift."

When Sefa is close enough to touch her with it, Morgana reaches an arm back and slaps it out of her hands. It lands in the snow and begins to soak up the wet again, after all of druid-slave's hard work to dry it out. "Keep that thing away from me," she bites.

"I don't think the faerie was trying to hurt you," she foolishly says, trying to convince. "Everyone deserves something nice for their birthday, and you're no exception. Actually—" And while the girl is reaching around to pull something from her pocket, Morgana goes blind with rage. Her mind froths through half-formed thoughts full of hatred. _Look at the idiot turning her back to me, I could kill her so easily —_

— _my lips are blue? Like hers are so much better! Thin, wan slips of skin that they are —_

— _and just_ w _hat does she have to be so happy about in her ignorant uselessness of a life —_

— _the_ _naive, innocent fool, so grossly old for blind faith. Every benefactor has an ulterior motive; nothing is given freely —_

This last thought hurts her conscious in a deep way, but she has learned to ignore the reasons for it. The diatribe ends with a wicked, "What a child you are," just as the girl extends a handful of trash into the space between them.

Dumb forest-girl is immediately embarrassed, and Morgana revels in the accidental insult. Weakly, the girl holds it half out again and says, "Lightning-struck wood is a known protection from harm."

 _Lightning!_ Morgana's mind shrieks while her mouth stretches wide in what must be a smile. That combined with her thought makes her think that this must be funny. "Give it here." She snatches it as she says the words, because her patience is non-existent.

It is less than what the simpleton claims - a burnt sliver of wood wrapped in drying thistle, braided into what would eventually be a cheap bracelet - borne on the whim of Emrys and meant to _protect._ Her hand trembles, and that must mean this is hysterical.

In that one wondrous year with her loving sister, Morgause had taught her how to See. Morgause taught her how to remove the healing bracelet and look to the struggles of the future and the horrors of the past. She led Morgana's magic to the battles and massacres, walked her physically through the empty camps, pushed her to the feet of scarred refugees and then slipped the bracelet onto her wrist again so she could sleep briefly without nightmares. She always was so sorrowful, Morgause was, to teach her the Truth. Always apologizing, her dear sister, with kind smiles and sweet hugs and a secret ambitious pleasure at every step Morgana was able to take forward, _on the barren path of the righteous._

Morgana is not bitter, because she loves Morgause so much. She knows she was used, but she knows Morgause loved her too.

Strangely enough, this is the thought that finally makes her laugh.

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) The Ides of November is approximately mid-month.  
(2) Merlin references _The Nightmare Begins_ S2.3. Besides the more obvious errors, Arthur and his men found the camp because they followed Merlin's tracks.  
(3) Show quote: "What happened to the young boy who came into my chambers just a few years ago?" "He grew up." Inadvertently, I reused this scene. I noticed the quote while digging around looking for where the fire is relative to the window. Thanks for that Linorien!  
(4) Lightning-struck wood is a symbol for the protection from harm in some realms of spirituality. Same with thistle.  
(5) Morgana's healing bracelet is gone after the opening episodes of Series 4. She trades it to Alator, and though he gives it back, she never wears it again.

 **Author's Note:**

Gaius stood by during the Purge, but he did help a choice few to escape. He largely fueled Merlin's wariness to share even non-illegal truths, but he cares for him very much. I'm not here to force anyone to believe Gaius is a good person, or a bad one. I am here to try and understand him as his own person who makes mistakes and hates and forgives and loves and loses. His actions, past and present, and his beliefs are just as important to a realized Golden Age as Arthur's or Merlin's.

I'm sure you see how these thoughts parallel with a much more controversial character.

Sometimes I sit back and think about what my life would be like without this story and your reviews in it. I know that I worry about getting chapters out on a weekly basis, and if I didn't have such consistent, wonderful, supportive reviewers that weekly-ish (cough) deadline would probably have waxed long ago. I found my first grey hair last week. I laughed, and then I realized that this story, despite the late night writing hours I have to squeeze in to normal life, is a source of non-stress for me. It brightens my week, every week, to hear from everyone. Extra thanks this week, to all of you, for reducing my grey hair count ;)

Linorien beta'd this chapter _immediately_ after I sent it over - thank you for helping me be less late - and I am in love with your belief that Aithusa would help some of the displaced Druids find Iseldir's camp. It's interesting, and I'm sure she's much happier doing that rather than sitting cooped up with Kilgharrah and going through, likely painful, healing processes. Dmarie1184 bought a book on plants and completely inspired the evil eye pendant - I love seeing more of Sefa's version of Druid culture.

Lastly, and mostly, Jewels ... thank you for picking me up from a ground where I had fallen and would not have stood from for a very long time.

All, I'm going to take a break from all the serious conversations next chapter. Time for a return to the classic Merlin formula - let's fight a magical creature, make fun of Arthur and just have some fun! I think all in Camelot are quite ready for a change in pace.

 **Next time:** Mouthful of Soap. Merlin and Gwaine wash out some curses.


	10. Snow Angel

—

 **Mouthful of Soap  
** _10 - 7 Kalends of December_

Gwaine had pulled the short stick.

This was an endless cause of amusement for Percival, largely because the Prank War had begun to reach epic poem stature. Gwaine's recent ingenious plot had split the seams at the rear of every pair of breeches Percival owned, and earned him the hopefully non-permanent nickname of the Enormous Kracken. In retribution, he'd replaced Elyan's boots with a lifted pair, and then subtly remarked on Gwaine's diminutive stature. Getting his friend to think he was the shortest of the group had taken a poker face the likes of which had not been seen in a tavern this side of the Tamesis River.

Even greater, Gwaine hadn't realized Percival had retaliated, and could constantly be found double-checking for dead spiders in his boots, or salt in his beer, or dye in the soap, etc.

So really, this prank was the gift that kept on giving. Gwen had decided with the rush of cold this winter that they'd be delivering quickly made quilts to the residents of the Lower Town, and as he'd mentioned before, Gwaine had pulled the short stick. This saddled him with all of the blankets in overladen arms while Percival and Elyan handed them out. Percival had made certain the pile balanced precariously against Gwaine's forehead, solely so he could say: "Are you alright there, Gwaine? We could help you carry those if you can't see."

Gwaine had turned scarlet, and _ah_ , small victories.

The trio crunched over the dirtied snow in this lower edge of the city, the sun setting halfway through their job. The glow of fires lit every hut from here to the castle, and while that just made the desire for a warm bed harder to ignore, every villager welcomed them in with genuine smiles. It was pleasant to catch up with people they'd run into on the streets, and link together the families they'd only previously known as individuals.

By then they were only too happy to gift a blanket, and the villagers were always trying to push another cup of hot tea into their hands. Though, that might explain why it was taking them so long to hand these quilts out, and why Gwaine was shifting about like a pregnant mare.

They were crossing the distance between one end of town and the other, empty shopfronts looming large on their left, when Elyan decided to bring it up. He elbowed Gwaine and smirked, "Need a bathroom break?" His grin widened, "No need to be embarrassed - your bladder is just in proportion to your height."

Percival chuckled, _looks like he found the lifts_ , but Elyan had been on the receiving end of enough pranks to forsake all thoughts of mercy at this golden opportunity. Gwaine fought back with this absurdity: "You're just standing on a hill!"

Percival suppressed a grin. This might be his worst joke yet, but he couldn't help it. "Go ahead. Or are you worried the cold has affected _it_ too much? If we're taking proportion into account…." His eyes flicked downward as Gwaine made a sound somewhere between strangled and outrage.

It was, perhaps, the perfect payback. A moment later Gwaine had shoved the blankets into his arms, shaking his fist and shouting about how "He'd get him for this!" while stomping stroppily away, presumably to find a hidden corner to take a leak.

Percival had to stuff his face into the cloth to avoid being too loud as he and Elyan shared a laugh at Gwaine's expense. They made their way through two more huts, a cup of tea, and Elyan's ninety-tooth smile. They were nearing the third and just discussing how Gwaine had probably ditched them for a woman when the man himself returned, looking a mite pale.

"Did you see that?" He asked when he stood close enough.

Percival and Elyan exchanged curious looks, but agreed they'd seen nothing. Gwaine's hand wasn't itching for his sword, and he took the proffered blankets readily enough, and so Percival took that as proof that this was Gwaine's idea of vengeance. "Why?" Percival followed up. "What did you see?"

Gwaine looked a bit embarrassed. "A woman in white."

Elyan hadn't seen his face, so immediately he was rolling his eyes while knocking on the next door. "Did she proposition you?"

"No," Gwaine said as the door opened to reveal an old couple with gummy smiles. He muttered lowly as Elyan started chatting to them about the wonderful smells of supper. "She was just wandering around."

"We'll keep a lookout," Percival replied to the badly formed tall tale. The accidental pun made him grin. "That is, if you can see anything from down there."

* * *

So, Gwaine did understand that there was cause to call him crazy. (There was less cause to call him small, but that really was not the point.)

For example, what kind of person drops their easy-going lifestyle to go on a death-defying adventure to the Perilous Lands? What kind willingly signs up for a lifetime of Merlin's careening mind-exploding revelations?

Apparently, the type that was endlessly accused of day-drinking just for claiming to see - what supposedly was - a figment of his ale-addled mind. (Also, evidently, the kind that in a bout of insanity sent money to a family he'd claimed to have long abandoned. But that was even more beside the point because he'd definitely burned their 'response'.)

So, maybe he even starts to believe the claims that he's finally cracking up, but he refuses to say anything further about the mystery woman in front of Percival or _Elyan._ (He really dislikes the knight recently - no particular reason.) In fact, he keeps the information largely to himself until the following afternoon when he hears Sir Caradoc mention her in passing to Sir Geraint. All he catches is that the freshly falling snow had 'hid' her footprints before he turns on his heel and heads for Arthur's chambers.

(Not to look for the king, obviously. He just knows that today is laundry day.)

* * *

Within those chambers, while unknowingly awaiting a dramatic entrance, Merlin stabbed himself with a needle.

Not on purpose, of course. He wasn't masochistic. He even stuck his thumb into his mouth and bit at the spot of blood, thinking Arthur might be onto something with all that 'clumsiest servant in Camelot' prattle. When his finger stopped stinging he groused, "Why don't you get Gwen to do this? She's the seamstress."

"She's the _queen_ ," Arthur replied haughtily. "How many times were you dropped on your head, again?"

Merlin grumbled and went back to the moth-eaten doublet he'd been tasked with salvaging. He had half a mind to magic the thread pink, but Arthur would probably make him redo every painful stitch under supervision once he inevitably noticed. Merlin had just worked the needle back through the thick fabric, and was troubling himself trying to get the needle to poke back through the right spot so that the sew-job didn't look like he'd pawned it off to a one-eyed duck, when Gwaine finally banged on the door.

Of course, that meant he stabbed himself again.

Merlin cursed, shaking his hand in a small spasm, and Arthur found it so funny he opened the door himself. Gwaine burst in with barely a glance in his direction, even after Arthur's very clear " _Ahem_."

The knight deliberated for a split second before tilting his head back towards the king. "What would you say if I said there have been sightings of a spirit woman?"

Arthur debated the question seriously. "Who's seen it?" Gwaine answered, and then they had the pleasure of watching Arthur's expression melt into sarcasm. "Ass-Kisser and you? That's it? You've both been in the cider again." This was very difficult to refute, largely because Caradoc had earned that nickname from a night spent so drunk that he'd quite publicly mistaken a donkey for his wife.

(Sard it, why hadn't he remembered that before busting in here?)

"This is why Merlin is my friend; he believes me, don't you Merlin?"

Gwaine looked to his friend, sitting at the main table with his tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. The expression on his face made it look like the hole in Arthur's shirt was on par with a trade deal with Caerleon, but he looked up when he noticed both men staring expectantly at him. His blue eyes shifted back and forth as he ran the previous conversation quickly through his head, then grinned cheekily. "I get a vote?"

Arthur cleared his throat and held out a hand. "Hold that thought." He strode pompously away and clomped up the stairs for the Solar above them.

Gwaine took the opportunity to fall dramatically into the seat opposite Merlin's stitching. "No one believes me. Just a tiny hint of the unnatural and suddenly everyone's head is in the dirt." He huffed, crossing his arms. "I mean would it _physically_ hurt them to have a little faith in my opinion? I have eyes that work just as well as everyone else's—" He broke off when he saw Merlin struggling not to laugh. The shoe dropped then, and Gwaine grinned sheepishly. "I don't suppose this has happened to you at all, has it?"

"Me?" Merlin replied with good-natured sarcasm.

Gwaine squinted his eyes while thinking of the times they'd ignored Merlin's advice. It must be rare, and even then, if it was important, they always believed him. Well, he supposed there was that time when Arthur had called Gaius a spy… and Agravaine's machinations in general… and the Lamia….

The chastened expression stealing across his face must have tipped Merlin off, because the servant snarked, "Feel free to pay my tab at the tavern."

Gwaine tried to look apologetic and innocent, and Arthur's heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. "If I promise to never doubt you again, will you believe me now?"

Merlin's gaze twinkled. "I'm not sure you've learned your lesson yet," but Arthur was nearly in the room again so he quickly added, "meet me at the library after evening bell."

Arthur was holding a bundle of wrinkled shirts and, when he was near enough, dropped them unceremoniously in Merlin's lap. "Don't think for one minute I don't know what 'spirit woman' is a euphemism for." He looked suspiciously at Gwaine - so uncalled for! - and then back to Merlin. "I am _not_ oblivious to the two of your…." He didn't seem to have a word for it, instead choosing to make a strange gesture with his hands.

Gwaine sucked in a breath of air so sharply that he choked on his snort. And then Merlin, with a perfect level of aghast:

"Oblivious, Arthur, _you?_ "

* * *

Geoffrey felt he was getting old. His leg had developed a dull ache nearly two years ago, one that acted up now with the weather, and his eyesight had worsened from all the decades spent squinting at texts in these dark halls.

With age came a settling of his ways, and anything out of the ordinary attracted his attention, partially because it was slightly aggravating to have to deal with. Gaius' boy had been one such aggravation, but he'd gotten used to him now. Merlin had a habit of knocking over stacks of books right when the dusty fumes of scrolls had lulled him into sleep, but he always had a funny story to tell, and that made him good company.

Geoffrey was well into the fourth chapter of an old tome he'd tasked himself with transcribing, mind humming over a conversation he'd had a thousand times with himself - something about the viscosity of ink and the sharpness of quills and how they must relate exactly - when he was distracted by a loud sneeze.

He looked up and saw Sir Gwaine rubbing at his nose. The knight looked lost and a little scared, and Geoffrey would have likened it to a baby bird if he had been in a poetic mood. Instead, he was rather aggravated to be interrupted in the middle of his task, and he couldn't quickly puzzle out what this knight was doing in the Hall of Records at this hour, and that bothered him more. He may even have said something if he hadn't heard Merlin's recognizable lope a few moments later.

The taller man came grinning around a dark shelf piled high with botany books and flashed a smile in Geoffrey's direction. He said something to the knight that Geoffrey's old ears didn't catch, and then both men moved off into the recesses of the room. Merlin's presence was ordinary, and that was reason enough for Geoffrey to put his head back into his tome and test the ink on his quill. It needed the perfect consistency and he had no patience for errors.

If Geoffrey had stopped to think about it, he would have found it odd that he could not see them between the shelves. He would have found it troubling that they had never passed him while leaving, and he would have found it impossible for the voices of two men to disappear in a whisper of wind and the flutter of pages.

* * *

For one brief, disorientating moment Gwaine was squeezed into a tunnel. In that split second he completely lost his body, was just a mind spinning without eyes to see where he was going, or an inner-ear to tell him which way was up. There was no space to wonder where he was, or to panic, or to even realize what had happened. Then he was standing on stone, and all that spinning hit him in one felling swoop, and Merlin was handing him his stomach back all too early.

When his traitorous organ was back under control (read: he needed to wash his mouth out, badly) he fixed Merlin with a steely glare. "Did I deserve that?"

"A little," Merlin grinned.

 _Yeah, true_ , he thought, though glowering. "What is this place? And how in the bloody sard did we get here?" Now that he had the wherewithal to look around, Gwaine noticed he was in some sort of cave. It was mostly dark except for some glowy lights Merlin must have put up, but he had heard the telltale rush of a river far below them while he'd been puking towards it.

"This is a cavern beneath the castle. I used to come down here a lot when I first got to Camelot." Merlin set the books he'd brought on the ground, and sat cross legged as he spread them out into a semicircle. "Normally I walk, but this time I had an urge to teleport."

"Teleport." Gwaine said with disgust. "That's standing in one place, dying, then coming back to life somewhere else?"

"So melodramatic," Merlin said cheekily, still quite pleased with himself over his evil prank.

"You really are powerful, aren't you?" Gwaine said woodenly, dropping down into his own seated position across from him. At Merlin's deflecting half-shrug, Gwaine gestured to the floating lights and let his arm trail off as if it were also pointing out the myriad of other spells he'd seen Merlin perform without effort. "What is the most you could do?"

Merlin hedged, replied "Lightning," then muttered after, "It's the most energy-based spell I've tried, so far."

Gwaine left off the 'so far' and stuck with the lightning - that had been aweing enough. Merlin must have misread something on his face, because he had stilled while reaching to use a spell over the books. Instead his hand stuttered midair and then dove down towards one brown book. He brought it carefully into his lap and cracked it open to a random spot in the middle.

 _He's probably over there thinking he freaked me out._ Gwaine mulled over his feelings and knew that wasn't the case, something else entirely was bothering him. He mind jogged through a few jokes he could toss out to break the tension, but when he opened his mouth, the truth just blurted out. (How did that keep happening?) "Thanks for believing me."

"Thanks for believing _me_ ," Merlin echoed.

Gwaine nodded seriously. There was a lot about Merlin that was hard to believe, and after you accepted it, it was still difficult to believe everything you used to know about him was true. "I was just thinking," Gwaine said as he picked up a book himself, trying to make out the words in the low light. (Was this another language?) "I'm not helpful."

"What?" Merlin said in surprise as Gwaine put the book back.

"Spirit woman is out there, and I can't do anything except tell you. You're the only one who can research her, and fight her if needed. I'd just be a tagalong, like with the dragons."

Merlin had this thing he did when he was completely baffled. His eyebrows would squish together and he'd tilt his head just slightly. If he spoke, his words would be slow and methodical. "But you have your sword."

"What good is that against a magical ghost?" Gwaine said.

"I modified it," Merlin replied, still confused. "Before Uther. Remember?"

Gwaine's eyes flicked to the sword trapped at his hip, and he had to contort himself to remove it while seated. He knew Merlin had thrown some spell at it before they'd faced Uther, and it had helped him fight the king, but he'd sort of thought it had been temporary. "Is this my version of Arthur's halfpenny?" he lightly asked once he held the weapon in his hands. (It hadn't looked or felt different in all these weeks, but obviously he had missed something.)

Merlin grinned a bit contritely. "More like your version of Arthur's Excalibur." Gwaine's brows rose and his silence pushed Merlin into spilling another secret. He'd had no idea Merlin had anything to do with Arthur's stone-sword, though it made sense now that he thought about the details.

"Long story, but I borrowed one of Gwen's swords and bathed it in dragon flame," he cleared his throat as Gwaine's face did something funny which he could not interpret, "and that gave it magical abilities, like the ability to kill undead soldiers…." Gwaine's eyes were bugging now, and so Merlin finished quickly. "I couldn't copy the spell exactly, but I was able to redo some of it."

He held a hand out for the weapon, and the knight handed it over silently. Merlin had spent enough time looking at Excalibur on the many armour-upkeep days, that he had admired and internalized the crystalline magic Kilgharrah had wrapped the blade in. The shapes were organic - always shifting before his eyes, as if they were constantly adapting to their environment. It was beautiful magic, and something that was still very far beyond him.

Merlin had cheated in his own recreation of the spell. He'd chosen one configuration of the pattern he'd remembered and shoved that around this metal. Looking at it closer, he could recognize it for the shoddy job it was. While he tweaked some of the more intricate structures he said, "It's not much, but this spirit woman is going to be pretty upset when she feels your sword sticking through her."

"Usually women are pleased when we get that far," Gwaine immediately retorted without much thought, accepting the sword back.

Merlin chuckled while watching Gwaine admire the blade with new eyes. It didn't look like the knight had realized he'd said anything at all. "You've got a wicked tongue, Gwaine."

Gwaine smiled widely. "And now I've got some wicked metal to go with it." He slashed the sword experimentally, standing up now. It still didn't feel different, but he fancied it had a bit of glow to it. (It didn't.) "Wicked Metal," he added after a beat. "It's a nice name."

"In the old tongue," Merlin smiled, "that translates to Galatine."

"Galatine," that fit. It felt right. He let the name roll around on his tongue and watched Merlin's blue lights reflect along the well-shined blade. Gwaine grinned, a mix of grateful, honoured, and proud. "Galatine…" he said, now very pleased, "you and I are going to be skewering a lot of women."

* * *

Behind the castle, well above Kilgharrah's old prison, an orchard took up a large portion of the Royal Gardens. It was a good orchard; well trimmed and pleasing to the eye. In the growing seasons a gardener was always present to maintain the trees' health and shoo away animals, and in the fall it provided a bounty of fruit for all the nobles. But this night the orchard was abandoned, and clumps of snow clumped onto thick, leafless branches.

Bordering the orchard was a wide path that followed Camelot's outer walls, and here Sir Caradoc followed also. The branches of the orchard creaked under their load as he patrolled, cloak flapping and toes going numb within his boots. He was thinking about the woman he had seen last night. She had barely had enough clothing on to be warm on a summer's eve, and she surely hadn't survived the night unless she had retreated indoors.

They had locked eyes, he nearing closer in slow steps while her snow-white hair blew in the wind. But a guard had distracted him, and by the time he'd turned back, she'd been gone. No tracks, no sign she'd ever been there.

Wind sighed through the trees and Caradoc looked up, his attention snared by the flickering shadows in the orchard. With snow so thick, the moonlight reflected from the ground and gave the scene an ethereal glow, and in the midst of it stood the woman again. She looked thin, lost, and now that he had crunched over the snow towards her - scared.

Chivalry won out over instincts and he asked, "Are you cold, my lady? Allow me to escort you indoors."

She was silent, blue lips frozen in place, but her eyes stared at him earnestly. He held out a gauntleted hand and her eyes flickered towards it. He had a breadth of time to admire her beauty, but he had no intention of acting on it. He had a beautiful wife waiting for him at home.

"You have nothing to fear," he said while her delicate hand tentatively reached out for his. As it landed on his palm he gave an involuntary shout. It felt like ice even through the layer of leather, and it laced up his arm in trails of trembling cold.

He shouted again as he wrenched his arm away, clutching at his painfully frozen hand. Shocked, he looked at the woman, who wilted before him. She was so wretchedly sad that he instantly forgave her. Peripherally he heard an answering call, but was unable to move as she disintegrated into air.

The voices met him in the orchard, gaping and still cringing over his arm. Someone tugged at his gauntlet and inspected his skin - red with a deathly pale outline of her fingers. Caradoc felt the blood drain from his face - what had she done to him?

"It's just frostnip. Nothing sitting by the fire won't fix." He turned, still shaky at the encounter, to a man it took him a few blinks to recognize as Arthur's manservant. Physician's Assistant too, if he remembered correctly.

To his right was Sir Gwaine, hand on his sword and seriousness etched into every bit of his stance. "Who was she?" He asked authoritatively, "I want the truth."

 _The truth_ , Sir Caradoc thought numbly, _is that I have no idea._

* * *

The moon was setting by the time Caradoc left Gaius' chambers, and Merlin rubbed at his eyes blearily. Gwaine had needed to replace the knight on his patrol - partially out of duty, but partially due to a desire to see more of this snow woman.

"What do you think of this?" Merlin asked his mentor as they cleared up the warm water and rags they'd used.

Gaius shook his head. "She's not like any faerie or creature I've heard of. She may be a woman cursed." He finished hanging a rag to dry then puttered into a corner to tap his fingers over his old books. He finally tugged one down from the shelf, then held it out for Merlin. "Perhaps this will help."

The books from the library hadn't been much use, but then again, he and Gwaine had very little to go off of at the time. It couldn't hurt to try again.

(It could hurt, an hour later his back ached and his neck had gained a crick.)

This time he used magic to simultaneously flip through the pages of both his spellbook and Gaius' encyclopedia of curse remedies, and he was getting frustrated. She hadn't been in the book of monsters, and he hadn't found a spell that could turn someone into a spirit that could freeze a man with a touch. If she really was cursed, he was far from finding the counter. He flipped through a few more pages, being obstinate now. In his fatigue, he wished he could just _make_ another cursebreaker like —

He stilled, pages settling back into rest. Consciously, he went back over that thought then sprung to his feet. _Of course_. The answer was so simple.

His eyes flicked to Gaius who had dozed off at his desk. With a burn of gold, Merlin sent the many books back to their respective places and tugged the blanket from Gaius' bed. He wrapped it around his guardian's shoulders, making sure to tuck the tails into the old man's lap to ensure his chest wouldn't get cold. He had been just as near to sleep a moment ago, but his idea had given him a rush of adrenaline.

What was riskier? Sneaking down into the vaults and putting the pair of guards to sleep, or teleporting straight there? While he dithered, he glanced out at the sky through their small window. The stars were in a position he hadn't seen in awhile, and he groaned quietly to himself. The lack of time before dawn decided for him - the quickest way into the vaults would be the best way, otherwise he risked running into a few early-birds.

He closed his eyes and formed the golden tunnel, burrowing it from this high chamber to the vaults beneath the castle. He aimed for a dark corner that he knew would be empty and felt the familiar headlong rush as he was sucked into the spell.

He blinked his eyes open, adjusting to the new scenery and listening for the nearby guards. He heard them shuffle and clink, and their sounds meant they hadn't heard anything to put them on the alert. Without moving he cast his eyes about the small room built like a prison cell. The red cushion that had once held the Crystal of Neahtid lay empty, and the shelves that stored magical texts full of darker spells stood undisturbed. Countless other artifacts were locked away amidst jeweled chests, expensive necklaces, and gold ornaments.

He was lucky; he knew exactly where Arthur had put it because he'd tagged along with him. He drew in a long, careful breath, and then let his eyes flash gold. A small metal chest clicked open to reveal an intricate glass ring in a pile of jewelry, and he very slowly tilted the lid back until it rested on its latches.

The guards went silent and he winced. They'd heard the click. Knowing they were already approaching, he held out his palm and rocketed the ring into it, teleporting away the moment he felt the glass land on his skin.

He landed in his room, stumbling back onto his bed. Teleporting on little sleep was always tiring. In fact, he wanted to put his head on the pillow and be dead to the world immediately, but he searched for a leather chord instead. He found one in his mending pile - leftover bits from Arthur's summer clothes - and slipped the makeshift necklace over his head. The ring hung warm over his sternum, and his heart did a little flip.

He sighed a bit sadly. Even after all this time, thoughts of Freya could do that to him. He toed his boots off and lay down into bed, unable to resist pulling the ring back out to look at it closely. This was the cursebreaker he'd been told to bring during the druidic peace-talks, and it had ended up as a token of goodwill to Camelot from Iseldir. What none of them knew, though, was exactly how much it meant to him.

He turned the intricate glass in his fingers and let his mind wander back to that night by the lake, when Freya had shown him their alternate future together and then pressed a ghost of a kiss to his forehead. In that reality, this had been the ring he'd given his _wife_.

Now, he supposed he'd be giving it to a snow spirit.

* * *

The daylight hours passed quickly, despite the lack of sleep. For Merlin, the time was filled with physician duties. The usual cold sickness was going around, and there were stacks of potions in need of delivery. Even Arthur was getting the sniffles.

As for Gwaine, recently Leon had shoved a few new recruits at him and told him to build a squad. Gwaine did not consider himself much of a squad-leader, more of a lone-wolf, and so it was always a strange day when the three fresh faces showed up at the barracks eager for orders. (The first he told to flip his left and right boots - "a master-swordsman's trick to better balance." The second he sent in search of apples and the third he told to follow him as he patrolled, but to be sure to always step in his bootprints. There was a lot to be learned from a master-swordsman's gait!)

He got rid of them by the evening since Camelot could always use a few extra guards. "Maybe one of these days they'll band together and challenge me," he was monologuing to Percival (a customary pastime). "But until then, I'll see just how much I can get away with."

The large knight was tugging on a sleep-shirt, and when his blonde head poked from over the cloth, he raised a brow that bade Gwaine continue.

"I think next time I'll blindfold them and tell them to navigate the castle. A proper knight has the halls memorized, right?"

"You have an evil mind," Percival said once he'd gotten the tunic over his broad chest.

"Or," Gwaine said with a finger in the air, "an innovative one."

"Enterprising," Percival corrected, then added just to be spiteful, "shorty." Gwaine looked about to yell something so Percival changed the subject. "Why are you still dressed for duty?"

Gwaine looked down at his chainmail, cloak, and swordbelt. "Things to do; I'm a busy man."

"A wanted man, maybe," Percival joked before lying carefully down onto the bunk. (One time he'd jumped and the thing had split in half. Hilarious - but uncomfortable.) "Going to see the 'woman in white' again? She turning you into an honest bloke?"

Gwaine scoffed. "I'm not _Leon._ " He leapt to his feet and strode away quickly now that Percival had reminded him of his real plans for tonight. "Don't wait up!"

He slid the barrack doors closed behind him and rubbed his hands together, partly in glee and partly because it was cold out. (After a few more minutes, it was mostly because it was cold out.) He and Merlin had decided to meet in the Plaza, near where Gwaine had seen the spirit originally, and then find someplace secluded to wait her out. Gwaine headed there now.

He figured he'd be waiting on Merlin - the guy liked to make an entrance - but as Gwaine clomped into the snow covered area near the front gates, he realized he'd almost missed the party. The spirit was already here, and she was staring at Merlin like he was her salvation.

* * *

A chill emanated from the woman, and at only a foot away, Merlin felt it seeping into his clothes. She stood on the ground but her feet left no imprint, and her skin, clothes, and hair were all as white as snow. Though she could not speak, he could hear the plea yelled through the set of her eyes.

Looking at her anguish, he knew he would not regret giving her Freya's ring, and his hand had already circled around the glass hidden beneath his clothes when she drew back a step. Something in her stance was a beckon, and he realized that maybe she wanted him to follow her.

She glided backwards, eyes never leaving his face, and Merlin had to quickly set a temporary sleeping spell on the front guards. He had to be careful to not let her out of his sight, and so he blindly followed her forward, past the walls, off the main road, and into the deep snow.

The frost came easily to his knees at every step, and in seconds his trousers and boots were soaked through. His feet were numb blocks of ice lashed to his legs, but he continued after her retreating form. He had magic to keep him warm, and he used it hover a new ball of flame between his shivering hands.

She led him deeper, further, into the dark beneath the trees where the lights of Camelot and the stars were blocked away. There, the fire gave an eerie glow to both of their faces. Her beauty went waxen. The hollows under her eyes and the gauntness of her cheeks were thrown into contrast, and suddenly he saw her for the skin-clad skeleton she was.

Her jaw unlocked, and he had no time to even freeze in shock.

She launched forward, fingers clawing, eyes raving, and he put the fireball between them and pushed. It launched through her body harmlessly, burning the snow at their feet, and bringing with it the smell of moist earthy fat.

The spirit latched onto the lapels of his jacket and he stumbled back - his mind placing the stench. It was meat with the fog of humanity, and it was a smell that haunted. She leaned forward as if she were going to kiss him, his hand came up - an instinctive spell lacing through his fingers, and then Galatine plunged through her side, impaling her from hip to shoulder.

She screeched, flailing back, and Gwaine shoved himself in between them. "What is that smell?" He yelled as he brandished his sword at the hissing spirit. "Is that her?"

Merlin's eyes flicked down to the hole he'd made in the compacted snow, and her plot fell into place for him. She had died here, frozen when the storm hit, but stealing youth or magic had been her hope to live again. "Hold your breath," he warned.

He held an arm straight out and yelled, " _Forbærne!"_ The ball of fire erupting from his palm was much larger than any paltry heat-warmer he'd summoned in recent weeks, and the small sun dug a trench as wide as a man in the ground. The sizzle of flesh hit their nostrils and in the heat and light they saw the small body blacken and crackle. The spirit shrieked and twisted midair, hair falling from her scalp as her skin melted away.

Below them, tendons warmed and snapped, making the corpse jitter and shake as if still alive. At the peak her screeching became a wail, long and loud and heartbreaking, and then cut into dead silence.

Gwaine gave an involuntary shiver and focused his attention on the rising smoke rather than the charred thing in the ditch below them. "The guards will have heard that."

Merlin nodded unsteadily, then gestured for the snow in driven piles around them. "Help me bury her first."

The worked in silence, the acrid odor ever-present as they toppled piles of snow onto the still heated body. Eventually melted water became slush, which soon became a new plane of snow that one couldn't differentiate from any other trampled portion of the forest.

Shakily, Merlin turned away and covered his face with his hands. He cursed quietly.

"So," Gwaine said, trying to lighten the mood. "I'd say that ranks a little below undead army, and just above wyverns."

Merlin chuckled hoarsely. He removed his hands and tried to hide the distress wrinkling his features. "I just… never wanted to see something like that. It was like she was alive."

"I get it," Gwaine answered honestly. "But it was necessary."

After a beat, Merlin nodded. He held out a palm, though hiding his face. "Let's not slog all the way back through the forest. Do you think you can handle another jump?"

Gwaine looked down at Merlin's arm. "Are you asking for my hand?" He said, trying for a joke again. When Merlin glanced up in unrestrained surprise, Gwaine fluttered his lashes.

Finally, Merlin cracked a smile. "You're insane."

"I try," he replied.

* * *

The next day, Merlin had more potions to deliver, an I'm-Not-Coming-Down-With-Something Arthur in need of a lot of soup and carbs, and drapes to beat the dust out of, because apparently they were causing all of the prat's sneezing.

He had kept busy, and it gave him a continuing excuse to not go return Freya's ring. The longer the guards took to notice his theft, the more his wanting to keep it strengthened. If no one could notice it missing, what harm was there in holding it close?

Merlin flapped at the set of curtains in front of him. These were in the upper story of the king's chambers, blocking the balcony and its view of the training fields. While he worked his way up their heavy expanse, he heard the door close downstairs, and then footsteps on the stair. He recognized them as Gwaine, but he didn't turn from his chore until he heard the knight slam something onto Gwen's armoire.

His eyes flicked from the flask to Gwaine, and then back to the flask as the knight raised it to his lips. "Want some?" Gwaine asked, after making a face at the taste. "We've got nefarious plans to make, and this stuff helps."

"I'm just as devious sober," Merlin quipped. "What's the occasion?"

"I found lifts in Elyan's boots," Gwaine all but growled. "They've been calling me short, and now they're going to pay." Before Merlin could make some fuss about staying impartial he continued, "Two against two, it's only fair."

"Yes, but I have magic." Merlin hid a sneeze in his shoulder and then said, "Weren't you going to make a codeword for that?"

(Nice attempt at distraction! He gave it a three out of five.) "That agenda has been pushed for our next cavern meeting." Gwaine found a dainty chair and straddled it. "I was thinking you shrink all of his trousers, so he thinks—"

"Already pulled that one on Arthur," Merlin cut in.

Gwaine blinked, once, twice, thrice… and at Merlin's sheepish grin he tilted his head back and roared with laughter.

In the midst of the cacophony, Arthur made it to the Solar unnoticed. When the uninvited knight stopped giggling, and they could hear him clear his throat, he asked loudly, "What did you pull on me?" He made sure to glower so that it looked more like an order and less like a question.

Merlin, of course, did not take the hint. "Your tunic?" (That was both a horrible answer and pun, and Merlin knew it. Arthur figured it didn't deign a response.)

Gwaine clued him in, though. Good man, that Gwaine. "We're pulling a retaliatory prank on Percival and Elyan. They may have won a battle but there is a long war to come." He shook a small container in the air, so they could hear the liquid slosh within it. "Help us plan. You're good at that sort of stuff, right Princess?"

"I don't pull pranks on my people; I'm the king."

Merlin snorted. "You hid a pouch of flour in the curtains just _today!_ It was all over my face! It's probably still—" He stopped himself and rubbed vigorously at his hair.

That only made Arthur snicker, sorry to have missed it. "You don't count as people." Then (and it must have been the flour or dust or peasant-hair-scent that Merlin just sent blowing through the room), as a close to his sentence, (and it definitely wasn't because his nose tickled and his throat itched), he sneezed so violently that he started hacking with a cough immediately afterwards.

When he came up for air, Merlin was a little too close for comfort. Arthur tried to back up, but realized that would send him stumbling down the stairs. "Are you feeling alright?" Merlin asked.

"Stay away from me," he replied forebodingly, shooting a warning glance at the hand Merlin was raising for his forehead. (He was not sick, damnit!) "What are you doing?"

"I'm worried—" Merlin lunged.

He sidestepped. "No, you're not."

"Your ears, Arthur."

 _Huh?_

"I think you're regressing—"

"What?"

"—back into an ass."

Merlin hid a flash of gold, Arthur brayed, and then he froze stock still. He tried to cover it with a cough. Cleared his throat. Avoided the bug-eyed look Gwaine was giving him.

Merlin scratched him behind the ears. "Does that feel better?"

"I'm going to kill you."

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) 10-7 Kalends of December is late November.  
(2) Tamesis is the ancient name for the River Thames.  
(3) Eoin (Gwaine) is one inch taller than Adetomiwa (Elyan) who is the shortest of the Round Table minus Gwen.  
(4) Sir Caradoc and Geraint are canon and are seen being knighted by Uther. Caradoc is named for the Caradocs from legend (there is a father and son pair), but the father who was a knight for Uther was tricked by a sorcerer into believing farm animals were his wife. I couldn't help but use that bit of backstory in my own way.  
(5) Wicked Metal is an extremely loose translation of Galatine. In fact, it requires serious squinting. Galatine is Gwaine's sword from legend, but some other legends say he was gifted Excalibur. So I kind of mixed the two together.  
(6) The Ring of Dispel is canon to the legend (Lady of the Lake gives it to Lancelot). My version of the origin story is in P1: Cinderella.  
(7) The vaults are mentioned multiple times in the show, and the library's secret room is shown in explored quite a bit in S3.3 Goblin's Gold. If you don't remember when Arthur was turned into a donkey, shame on you.  
(8) The snow spirit is based on the Yuki-onna from Japanese mythos. She's known to be a beautiful woman who leads travelers astray, among other things.

 **Author's Note:**

Remember when Merlin accidentally wakes up Geoffrey in the library, then uses magic and convinces Geoffrey he'd been dreaming? Subliminal messaging. I feel like Geoffrey _knows_ but doesn't KNOW, y'know?

This chapter was a little episode, life-in-Camelot sort of fling. I enjoyed it thoroughly. After Merlin really taking to heart his role in the legend, and all the other angst-coasters, it was nice to just have some Merlin and Gwaine time. We can get back to SNAFUs next chapter.

I want to start off my round of thank yous with Linorien, my beta. Awhile back she gave me the exciting idea of having Merlin gain a proper room to practice magic in, i.e. the cavern. Merlin doesn't know he wants one yet, but he wants one. Plus, she poked me earlier when I didn't give Galatine a proper introduction. She doesn't know, but the naming this chapter was because of her. And of course, quick beta-ing even though Linorien really didn't have free time until tomorrow. Always thankful that she puts up with my random schedule. Jewels and Dara, we had a moment this week. It's very close to my heart. I'll cherish it forever. Jewels in particular is a muse unlike any I could have hoped for. Scenery help? Character analysis? Lightening my mood? Strengthening my resolve? Most of all, she inspires me by always reminding me to love even small things, how to enjoy those bits and pieces in life that are easy to look over. (Btw, the donkey-regression scene was all due to you.)

As for all of you, PMs inbound - maybe tomorrow though since it's late. So honoured every time that you guys are so supportive and interested. Also, I'm going to write another one or two short thank you chapters in Albion's January timeframe. I've been offered one great idea (and a few minor ones in reviews, you may not remember since they were awhile ago), but I want to do/combine more. Seriously, I do want to write a mini thank you. It would make me happy, and it would give me a break which I will direly need before the finales. Just think about it please. Think of this as a drabble request.

 **Next Time:** Alpha Bitch. The Alpha Dog is out of commission, and Gwen teaches the court the meaning of Queen.


	11. Alpha Bitch

—

 **Alpha Bitch  
** _Mid December_

Everything in life was looking up.

Drystan smiled broadly, not caring if he came off crazy. Two years ago, he'd thought he'd be the freckle-faced dishwasher the rest of his life. Then King Arthur had been crowned, peasants had been allowed into the ranks, and suddenly he'd found himself toying with the practice swords late at night.

He hadn't ever actually gotten good, but he'd fantasized. There he'd be in his chainmail on his white stallion, and that pretty servant girl with the dark hair would finally see him. He would have lived on those fantasies a long while, but Princess Morgana took over the castle and a lot of people were injured or killed. When the King had returned he'd needed new recruits fast, and Drystan had been handed his first real sword.

He'd only been worthy of a guard position at first, but he'd thrown himself into the job. He took naps so that he could be alert when on duty. He made his old friends sneak around so he could learn the sound of silent footsteps and smothered breaths. During training, he'd taken every bit of Sir Leon's advice to heart.

Once a year, Camelot had tryouts. Tryouts for Knighthood. He'd been green, in skill and in pallor, but he'd put his lot in anyway. Sir Brennis bet on his potential, and suddenly it was winter and Brennis had requested him specifically to learn this new, deep route through the forests of Camelot. Drystan would lead new guards along it _on his own_.

Next year, he'd probably be a knight. Of Camelot.

Sir Brennis held a hand up which stopped the pair in their tracks. His head swiveled back and forth, scanning from snow covered tree to snow covered tree, and he cupped his hand around his ear: the sign for 'hear that?'

 _Well, no,_ Drystan thought abashedly. He'd missed it because he was caught up reveling in his own successes. Brennis made the sign for splitting up, and Drystan nodded, now fully prepared to devote his focus.

Soon enough he couldn't hear the knight moving in the opposite direction, but Drystan continued onward. He stopped every five paces, listening through sounds dulled by snow for what Brennis must have heard. Fifty or sixty paces in he finally caught it: a sound like a cape snapped in the wind.

In any other sequence of events he would never have located the source. But the sun came out, and a shadow moved over the snow - too large to be a bird, and too fast to be a cloud. He looked up in time to see a white, lizard-like tail disappear behind the canopy.

With practiced movements he drew his sword and followed after, now orienting himself with every flutter of the creature's wings. As he stalked his heart beat heavy, making the pulse throb in his fingertips. This would be his first true test of bravery, and it would be against a beast of magic.

On they went, deeper onto untread paths. Here evergreens kept their pines, wolves' claws gouged bare trunks, and frost clung to revealed patches of dirt. He never heard the thing land.

It was an unfortunate error, but unavoidable. He was still lacking experience, naive in the ways of magic, equating brashness with bravery, and now he had walked into a campsite with eyes still stuck to the sky. He never did have time to recognize the dragon for what it was, because a flurry of human motion stole his attention.

In reflexive defense he brought the sword up, and he had a splitting second to think _dodge_ as the panicked archer aimed. His muscles tensed, he tried to jerk left, and then he was on his back.

He saw blue sky. His throat burned, and his temple screamed like the worst hangover of his life. There was no air and when he tried to gasp he gurgled, the feathers from the tail of an arrow quivering above him.

 _Mother,_ he thought.

Then he died.

* * *

On this same bright morning Gwen woke facing Arthur, their foreheads pressed nearly together.

Their breaths mingled and the smell wasn't altogether pleasant, but other small facts kidnapped her concern. Every exhalation of his whistled on the end with a wheeze, his skin was flushed red and dewy, and she did not need to touch him to feel the fever radiating.

 _The winter sickness,_ she diagnosed with some small worry. _I knew he was getting ill._

She leapt from the covers, sliding her feet into slippers and wrapping a ruby robe tight around her frame. Her fingers probed at her own throat and sinuses trying to trigger the telltale signs of the ailment, but luckily caused nothing abnormal. Tearing open the chamber doors she said to the posted guard, "Please fetch Gaius - Oh, Merlin!"

At the sight of her friend carrying broth and tonics, she ushered him in and waved off the guard.

After a cursory inspection Merlin said, "He's gotten worse," but at Gwen's alarmed look he modified, "I've been on top of it; he should recover sooner than most." He wiggled a clear bottle between them. "I've even got one of Gaius' special surprises ready and waiting," he chuckled.

Recollection of the horrid taste made even the unconscious Arthur's lips turn down, and the king began to squirm. As he became more aware of his own discomfort he woke fully, blinking weary eyes and croaking unintelligibly.

Merlin shoved the vial in his face. "Drink up, sire."

Arthur groaned and propped himself up on an elbow, shoving the servant away with his free hand. "I want water, not poison." He tried to struggle further up, but Merlin's hand on his shoulder and a tightness in his lungs subdued him.

"You have to do as I say," Merlin sung. "You're sick, and I'm a Physician's Assistant."

"I want a second opinion," Arthur grumbled, albeit downing the tonic with a grimace.

A sharp rap of knuckles on the door sounded, but Gwen's two boys were very caught up with a struggle over the soup spoon. Merlin thought it would be funny to feed the infirm Arthur while making baby sounds. She shook her head in amusement as she opened the door, thinking it was the posted guard checking on them.

It was Leon. "Your majesty," he started formally, which immediately put her on edge. Something was wrong. The tone of his voice caught Arthur's attention too and he called out "I'm getting up!"

There was the sound of a scuffle as Merlin refused to let him. Gwen put on her no-nonsense scowl and aimed it at her husband. "You will not move from that bed, Arthur." When he froze in the face of her insistence, she turned back to Leon. "What's happened?"

"In short, we have two freshly dead bodies passing through our gates - unmistakably killed in battle."

Arthur frowned. "Now I'm definitely getting up," at the re-emergence of Gwen's glare he paused. "Or not."

"I will not stand by and watch you stubborn yourself into a winter coma!" Gwen stomped her foot and pointed a finger at him. "I'll handle this, and I'll summarize for you later. Now eat your soup."

Arthur was dumbstruck, but he nodded. Merlin chuckled despite himself. Leon said, "I'll gather the Council," then half-bowed as he swept away.

She grabbed a handful of dried fruit from Merlin's breakfast tray and nibbled as she strode for the Solar. The bodies would be taken to Gaius first, so she'd have to hear his judgement on how they died. There was more to the story than two dead people, the troubled look on Leon's face had belied it, and the small worry that had started with Arthur started to flip in her stomach.

As she climbed the stair she tried to turn her mind to her gowns. Deciding what to wear should provide a distraction capable of preventing her from fanciful conjecture.

"No!" Merlin shouted just as she reached her vanity. There was a clang and then, "Gwen said no babies if you don't do as I say." A pause, assumedly as Arthur mumbled something. Then Merlin again: "It was implied."

Gwen giggled softly as she began to brush out the tangles from her curly hair. It was getting quite long, but Arthur liked it that way and there was no longer a forge for it to dangerously dangle into.

Arthur coughed wetly, and Merlin commented. "That was disgusting."

This was a far better distraction, and she let the normalcy of getting dressed while listening to her best friend and her husband's morning banter wash over her. It never failed to put a warm feeling of contentment in her breast, and a fond smile on her face.

"I think the word you're going for is charming."

"If only I were enough of a dollophead to believe that."

"That. Is. Not. A. _Word._ "

"If you drink all of your soup like a good little boy, I'll teach you the definition."

"Just because your pea-brain has chanced upon some explanation does not make the word _real._ Other people have to use it for it to be _real._ "

"Gwaine—"

"—Does not count!"

"If I get Geoffrey to say it, you have to call me Master Merlin for a week."

"Do it by Yule, or you have to wear a pansy in your hair during the feast."

Gwen shook her head. _Those two._

* * *

In the end, she chose a light blue dress with a navy bodice in velvet. It had silver filigree, and it went well with the ornate crown needed for these sorts of situations.

She was a vision at the head of the room, her hair draping around her shoulders as she sat rigid-backed in her throne. The early sun spilled through the stained glass windows, littering the long wooden room in a scattering of rainbow. Along the other wall servants had placed chairs for the Council, and five nobles watched from plush red cushions, the lights dancing at their toes. A sixth Council chair sat empty.

Less structured were the clusters of knights, servants, and lesser nobles in the back half of the room. From that crowd came Leon, and behind him, a knight and a peasant woman. She had a round face with deep-set eyes inflamed from crying. Unwashed blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun, but as the woman arrived in the center of the room she pushed back stray strands and then subtly covered a stain on her dress. She curtseyed shakily. "Your majesty."

Leon announced her. "Ethil, of the Druids," and then for the scribe, though they all knew him, "Sir Brennis, of Camelot."

A member of the King's Council being called to court was rare, and this explained the crowd eager for first-hand gossip. Brennis bowed. Together, he and Ethil stood alone in the center of the room.

Gwen spoke clearly, her voice ringing. "I will hear all the facts, then both of your stories, without interruption. The Council will follow with their questions." She looked to Gaius. "Tell me of the bodies."

The elder physician nodded, stepping half into the spotlight. "Similar amounts of rigor have set into both bodies, meaning they were both killed within a narrow timeframe. The guard died from a single arrow to the throat, and the Druid by a slash across the abdomen. There were no other fresh wounds."

She thanked him then turned to Leon, who had little else to add. "Sir Brennis arrived at the front gates approximately two hours after morning bell. The corner of his cloak was bloodstained," he gestured at the evidence that still remained, "and four men went with him to gather the bodies. From their reports, Drystan was found on his back near a hastily covered campsite, and the druid was found on his side, held by Ethil. They saw no signs of other travelers in the area."

Gwen held up a hand for clarification. "They were nearby?"

"Not within sight of each other, but nearby."

She drew a deep breath; a trick to stretch her back muscles while she came to quick conclusions. She had trusted Leon and Gaius to tell her the truth as they saw it, so throughout their speeches she had watched Ethil and Brennis. Neither seemed thrown off, so she wasn't expecting outright lies. However, Brennis was impassive and Ethil was frayed, and both frames of mind would likely result in bias.

With that grain of salt prepared, she addressed the Druid woman.

Ethil's trembling hands fisted in her skirts, and then her voice echoed across the chambers. "My brother and I are from the forests north of Essetir. Recently we were… taken to the capitol, and he was injured there. His knee. We laid low for weeks - hiding out in villages and barns." She dashed quickly at her eyes. "A rumor went around that Camelot was accepting Druids, and we thought we'd risk the journey." She quoted with self-deprivation, "Go west unto the Light of Dawn. _Færeþ scéawen æthusa."_

Camelot had been this woman's hope and refuge, and it had been brutally denied her. It turned Ethil's voice bitter. "So we travel through your forest only to have this raving swordsman come out yelling at us—"

Brennis talked over her, unable to take the attack on his character. "I had just left a hastily covered campsite where Drystan had died, and I see these two hiking off nearby. Of course I stopped them."

Gwen raised a brow, but didn't rebuke him for interrupting. She was interested in seeing how this argument played out.

"We did nothing wrong, we had nothing to do with the other man's death."

"I asked them where they were from, and where they were going. They lied, badly."

"We said we were visiting family in Camelot. It's not safe to claim a Druid heritage, especially not in Essetir."

 _So, even in Camelot, there's still fear of reprisal,_ Gwen thought.

"I asked for the name of whom they were visiting. They answered Iseldir."

"That sounds like the truth," Gwen probed, defending Ethil.

Brennis continued spitefully. "They likely did not expect me to know him. They backtracked upon further questioning."

"You wanted honesty so badly, so we gave it to you. It would have been better to lie!"

"If they were from Iseldir's camp, they would have one of the tokens." Brennis looked to the Council, specifically at Master Finch - the head of the artisans. "You'll remember we all agreed that Iseldir's druids would have a token that they'd use for passage into Camelot. Finch made the branded pieces of wood and we gave the whole lot to Iseldir during the peace talks." Brennis cleared his throat and spoke loudly to the room. "Ethil and her brother had no idea what I was talking about."

"How can we have known if we hadn't met Iseldir yet? We didn't know about that rule. Besides, is it a crime to not have one of these tokens? A crime punishable by death?"

"In some cases, yes." Gwen clarified, her seriousness in contrast with Ethil's rising voice. "It is the law of Camelot, but we don't have laws for the sake of rules, but for the safety of these lands. A token proves you are trusted."

"And when was I given the chance to earn that trust?" Ethil cried, aiming her embittered answer at Brennis. "You never gave us a chance!"

That answer troubled Gwen, and now she looked at the dutiful mask adorning Brennis' face, searching through the straight delivery of presumed facts. Was there any smugness there? And in Ethil, was her reaction now proof of her actions in the forest?

"After I asked for the tokens, and they were unresponsive and belligerent, the male reached for their pack."

"He was proving to you that we had no weapons! He said he was showing you we were unarmed!"

"Drystan died from an arrow wound, and a crossbow could easily have fit in their bags."

"Your _imagination_ is your justification for killing my brother?"

"The both of you lied, and then failed to follow orders. He ignored me when I told him to keep his hands in sight."

"And that's worth this punishment? Sorry, but it seems a bit dangerous to just blindly accept whatever demands come from forest accosters. Anyone could get a red cape." Ethil's words had already cut sharp, but she carved her next words with an extra dose of venom. "And I find your excuses appalling. You had pre-judged us. We were guilty of 'traveling while Druid', a common villainy in Albion!"

Before the argument could get further out of hand, Gwen shouted. "Quiet, both of you!"

She didn't have the bellow of a man, but her authority was enough to tame them. The throne room dimly echoed with her voice, and the crowd looked to her in the wake of the screaming match.

More calmly she added, "I think we've heard enough. Does the Council have any questions for Sir Brennis or Ethil?"

There were too many. Lord Savile wanted to know if Ethil or her brother had archer's callouses on their fingertips, and Mistress Vanora asked if guards were out searching for other travelers that may have killed Drystan. She had directed her question to Leon, but Gwen had answered before he had the chance. It irked her that the Council would so easily assume she didn't know the actions of the military.

They went over the details to exhaustion. What did the arrow look like, how close had Brennis had been standing before attacking, the exact phrasing of the argument in the woods, etc. Eventually Gwen couldn't handle anymore minor information - she just wanted some space to think. She waved for quiet.

"Recess," she sighed. "I'll deliver my judgement tomorrow morning."

"So late?" Grenfell from the Council asked, causing a titter of surprise in the crowd.

It wasn't often someone second-guessed their ruler, and Gwen's lips flattened in distaste. "It appears the timing will have the added benefit of teaching you patience."

She stood, letting those words and the slow sarcasm of her tone reassert her authority. She could see Elyan's proud smirk from her periphery, but she couldn't indulge. With her next few sentences she set the Round Table knights on specific tasks and prompted the servants to begin preparation on a late lunch. Brennis wanted to help with the search for Drystan's killer, but that would have been in bad taste. She put him in charge of the funeral services instead. He'd be plenty busy organizing the pyres.

Then, before anyone could require anymore attention, she gestured for Elyan's arm and had him escort her out.

* * *

It pinched a little - Gwen could be very forceful.

Elyan put on his best serious face and tried to look like he wasn't being dragged by his elbow. His little sister with the dainty build and the soft features had been a lioness long before she married a Pendragon, and he fought back a broad grin as she led him to the upper walkways. First he thought she just wanted out of the room, and he nudged her and made a joke about the Council, but she didn't laugh. Then he was drug from vantage point to vantage point and his brow began to furrow. Were they looking for something?

They paused in the bitter wind of the battlements, and Elyan had just opened his mouth to force her inside when she saw a guard posted on a tower's peak, and again they were off. It registered then that Gwen was looking for a place to be alone.

That was a need he knew well. When there were so many issues tangling in your mind, there was so little energy left for graces. Even graces like simple conversation with your family.

As she led them into the guest wing he slid his mouth closed. He stopped studying her faraway gaze and put his own eyes resolutely forward. He gave himself a look a purpose, as if he had destinations in mind when they passed guards and nobles and servants, because as long as she was tucked into his arm she could claim preoccupation.

He wasn't here to be her brother, he was here to be her shield.

* * *

Gwen knew this hallway blindfolded. She had walked it a thousand times, had counted the steps while her vision was blocked with laundry, and had puffed curls out of her eyes while dragging bathwater. She had navigated by firelight when duty kept her late.

Her hand trembled on the doorknob at the end of the hall, but she didn't pause. The heavy wood swung inward, revealing the mundane decoration of their second guest room, and left Elyan wavering in the doorway as she swept past curtains into the drawing room.

There was still a rectangular table with two hard wooden chairs, and she had pulled one out and landed in it before allowing herself to really feel how silly this was. The adjoining rooms had been largely redecorated for Agravaine, and then wiped clean once again. Almost everything was different now. Plus, what had she hoped for? The comfort from the memory of simpler times?

Sitting in the ex-chambers of two of the greatest traitors in Camelot's recent history didn't offer much comfort. In fact, it only lent a reminder to how one small decision could result in so much failure.

Gwen's fingers ran over her lips, and she tilted her head to look at the afternoon light slanting through one thin, uncurtained window. Morgana's changing screen used to sit right before it. She made the last movement to grab the ornate crown and bring it down into her lap. It was a beautiful thing, really, but much more her once friend's style.

In look only, though. Everything else that came with the crown Gwen knew she herself did better. She had known what she was getting into by courting and marrying Arthur. She had expected daunting responsibility, and she had expected to have to endlessly prove herself. She would never push all duty into Arthur's lap - she was just as much his to lean on as the reverse.

Earning the crown did not make her infallible though. Reticence, self-absorption, and ignorance were all traits she had carried in some capacity, and her worst failures had leered alongside them. She had been blind when she'd helped sneak her father from his jail cell, precipitating the crime that would finally kill him.

Kissing Lancelot while betrothed had been monumentally stupid. She had missed him so much in that moment, and she had remembered how much she had loved him - still loved him, at the time. That indulgence had banished her. She'd lost her home, her friends, and Arthur's trust. It had hurt, so much.

But those mistakes had, mostly, only affected herself. Both were undeniably the decisions she'd regret forever, but neither was the worst decision of her life. That decision still echoed in her mind in moments like these, when everyday issues tilted just slightly into abnormal and charged with emotion.

 _"I'm fine."_

It haunted her - how wrong she had been; how badly she had failed.

 _"You should go, if you want. I'll be alright on my own. Really, Gwen."_ Morgana's skin had been pale, her eyes desperate, her posture huddled. She had been terrified to admit the truth, and Gwen hadn't been so stupid as to not have guessed at it herself. _"I'm fine."_

And she had walked away. She had left Morgana, on that bed just there, and she had never broached the topic again. She could mark the beginning of their rift to that exact moment. She could not afford to ever be so heartless over anything ever again.

Elyan's troubled expression brought her back to her surroundings, and he crouched to be on her level. His dark skin was striking against the shine of his armor and the red splash of his cloak, and his eyebrows bent together. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

She smiled in apology. "I just need to think. I'll speak with Arthur later as well, but for now there are just so many consequences I have to weigh. I'm sorry for dragging you out here, Elyan."

He reached out and cupped her cheek in his rough hand. His eyebrows had always been expressive, and she had read truth and lies from them since they were children. They told her now that he was earnest. "Our parents would be so proud of you, Guinevere. I'm so proud to be your brother. I know that, whatever you do, it will be the right thing for Camelot."

His hand drew back and he began to walk away. Elyan would probably never understand how his easy belief in her was extraordinarily better than specific help. He hadn't been worried, and it was like a steel cable along her spine. "Elyan," she said quickly before he was too long gone. "There is one thing I need, actually."

He turned back and she stood, holding her arms out.

"A hug, for luck?"

* * *

Elyan is fantastic at hugs. He gives them warm and slow and unembarrassed. Morgana doesn't know this though, and never will.

Hugs for her fall somewhere between the awkward few Uther had bestowed, and the uncomfortable but loving one she'd hunched through for Aithusa. The unfamiliarity explains the strangled feeling that makes her twist on the cold ground, waking her from a coma-like nap to struggle with fabric cinching her arms near her body. _Who in the fuck did this!?_

She sits up like a snapped tendon which releases the trapped sleeves, and she flails ridiculously as the green cloak flutters to her knees. She knows she's battling the winter sickness, but her magic is the front lines as always, and so she doesn't concern herself with it.

Instead, she hunches down and bares her teeth at the Leshy watching her from the clearing's border.

"Priestess, the Tormentil is ready," Ruadan alerts, purposeful as always. Morgana turns to him and runs her eyes over the small clay pot now cooling, still on its stand but off the fire. She gets to her feet and ignores the dizziness.

Within the container is just enough liquid to bind the curse she's planning, though the plan begins and ends there. She just feels like hurting someone. Any distraction, even a half-arsed one like this, is better than the broodings she's succumbed to recently. She dips a finger in and then draws it out, watching the dye drip between her knuckles and into the lines of her palm.

The small pot of Tormentil Red before her does not belie the work it took to produce it. This is a product of careful accruement of particular roots, alcohol, and time spent peeling, boiling, mashing, straining, and stirring. The consistency of the liquid is exact, the aroma acrid, and the waft of magic potent. "Let's hurry," she says. "Do you know the words?"

"I can guess at your plans, Priestess, but I don't actually know them."

Morgana gets down on her knees and turns the cloak inside out. Her hands smooth down the rippling fabric and stop where a person's abdomen would rest. "Just don't waste any." She holds out both arms. "Coat my hands."

Ruadan lifts the bowl from its stand and tilts it carefully. At first it puddles in the hollows of her palms, and then it begins to run over in sticky lines.

"Don't forget my fingers," she snaps, then begins to chant an incantation. As she expels her buoying magic into the dye, her windpipe dries and prickles with irritation.

She pumps energy into counteracting the properties of the herb. She goes through the chant thrice as she amplifies the curse, and the further along in the spell she is, the warmer the liquid becomes in her hands. At first it's uncomfortable, and soon it stings like acid. The destruction of her magic leaves her frail, and her arms shake while the liquid becomes sandpaper on raw skin.

Eventually the corruption has taken all it can from her, and she presses blood-red palms into the fabric of the Leshy's cloak. The liquid slinks away from her skin and glows beneath her hands, and then the stains disappear into the dark spaces between threads. A violent shiver wracks her, and she turns the motion into a bad attempt to turn the cloak right-side out.

Her head is aching, and she has the urge to draw her arms out of her sleeves and curl into a ball under the curtain of her dress. "A gift," she pants as she pushes the cloak towards Ruadan's feet. She doesn't think she can stand without another wave of dizziness. The Leshy glares woodenly from the shadows, and so, just to be rude, she continues, "I have no need for it. My allegiance can't be _bought."_

Ruadan looks at the pile dubiously and scratches at his silver beard. "What will it do?"

Ironically, Tormentil is best used in healing spells. This explains Ruadan's confusion. He has no knowledge of dark spells, unlike Morgana. "Hurt," she says, because it will. Dark magic leaves a vacuum where magic once was, and whoever wears this cloak will feed that vacuum until they are empty themself. "Give it to my enemies. Any of them; I don't care."

"So Sefa and I can leave today?" Ruadan looks to the sky and places the sun. It's already late, but it won't keep him.

"You're no more use here," she retaliates.

"I need to find the rest of my people," he diverts. "I've been away for too long."

"As you've said before," she answers bitterly. "Send me news of the tribes and Camelot at first thaw."

"As you wish, Priestess."

And that's it. He places Sefa's few belongings into the center of the cloak, wraps them up, and then walks away without a backwards glance. Not that she wanted him to look at her.

She's the one sending them away, anyways. She doesn't want them here. Especially not Sefa with her mothering tendencies and her nightly stews.

She's cold yet she's sweating. The beginning of _forbærne_ comes to her lips, but her entire body revolts at the attempt to use any more of her magic. So the fire dies down further, and by the time it does she feels like she's burning with heat anyways. Her world tilts, and she careens the rest of the way to press her cheek into frosty grass and the tangle of her hair.

It's cold and scratchy and smells like stale sweat. Perhaps she should have taken Sefa up on her offer to wash it.

Stupid girl. Thank the Goddess she is finally gone.

Now if only the Leshy would stop it's staring, she could be happy. It's snuck closer and is now standing like a frozen gargoyle complete with bird shit and dead eyes. Why won't it just leave; doesn't it see she wants to be alone? Morgause used her, Aithusa left her for Emrys, and Arthur and Gwen have permanently cuddled up. She hates everyone and everything and she just wants that bloody tree to go away.

Really.

 _She's fine on her own._

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Drystan and Brennis, introduced previously (P2: Matchmaker's Return Policy. P1: A Roll in the Hay, It's Just a Prank, Bro).  
(2) Secrets you don't care about: The King's Council are based on the characters from Clue. Secrets you do care about: Yes, it was Colonel Mustard in the Forest with the Sword. The full Council is introduced in P1: Cinderella, but there are some earlier and later descriptions scattered around.  
(3) The real Old English for Light of Dawn is _dægrædléoma._ That's a bit of a mouthful. Greek is αὐγή. I old english-ified it: _æthusa_. So, _Færeþ scéawen æthusa_ "translates" to Go west unto the Light of Dawn.  
(4) Thanks to Leannie and Samiri for getting me thinking of the Druid POV because of open-ended questions they left while reviewing previous chapters.  
(5) Tormentil is a root native to Europe. It's really good for digestion and other minor cures. In the summer it grows yellow flowers. It's proper name is _Potentilla erecta._

 **Author's Note:  
**

My explanation of dark magic finally made it into the story. I was thinking along similar lines with the Eancanah in Part 1.

Unfortunately I did not finish the court room drama. Next chapter will open from it and we'll go from there. How do you think Gwen should handle this? It's a tough decision. Definitely elements of some arguments going on in the states these days. The Druid tokens also reminded me of something particular in history.

This was a good test for me in writing trials; what I did and didn't like about it. It'll come in useful.

Things are random now, and I admit and apologize for that. We're almost done with these middle chapters, I promise. Winter is going to pass fairly quickly - this isn't Game of Thrones.

PMs inbound for all you wonderful people who don't deserve to wait this long for an update. Thanks to Linorien for working on this during math class and helping me boost and reduce all the major scenes. Her idea for Aithusa is still paying itself forward. And lovely thanks to Jewelsmg and Dmarie for being a daily dose of wonderful conversation about anything and everything. It's like coming home to two great roommates every day. Bonus thanks to Jewels for realizing what dollophead means. You guys ready for it?

Airhead!

 **Next Time:** My Father's Body. Gwen's decision spurs a chain reaction that won't see a conclusion for a long while. Whether the results are good or bad, though, is up for interpretation.


	12. My Father's Body

—

 **My Father's Body  
** _Mid December - Yule_

"I have a decision. And let me preface: no one wins."

Most would give this speech while lounging in the throne - to further drive home the point that no one could argue with royalty. Gwen, though, chose to stand. Despite her shorter stature, she cut an imposing silhouette in a gown of deep red ringed with thick fur cuffs. Opposite her was Ethil, washed and freshly dressed, and next to the Druid, Brennis. The knight had bags under his eyes, but his armor was polished to perfection - perhaps he guessed he wouldn't have much chance to wear it again.

"When someone close to us dies before their time, it wounds. Any memory of them is raw, and anger becomes the perfect distraction. Revenge is no salve. Revenge has lain this kingdom low more than once."

Gwen lifted an arm until the fur slipped down to reveal her left hand, palm raised upward. "Druidic existence is stained with discrimination." She held up her right. "I trust the knights of Camelot with my life." She paused, now physically weighing her thoughts.

"We gave Iseldir tokens with good intentions, but I see now that forcing Druids to carry a badge demeans them. In Camelot, we trust people for who they are, not what symbols they wear. Drystan, a peasant, earned his place in our ranks because he worked hard, rather than for a family crest going back five generations. We'll mourn him." She took a breath in the silence. "In his honor, the decree requiring Iseldir's Druids to carry a brand is repealed."

There were wide eyes and some whispers, but she held the room. "I wonder why Drystan had to die in that forest. We knew him as an earnest young man, eager to please. He'd never even injured another in combat. I wonder if his killer knew those things about him. Would he have died if that archer was aware that all of Drystan's earnings went to his mother?"

Years of servitude had made Gwen an observer. When she'd stood with her pitcher behind Morgana and listened to the young woman argue with Uther, Gwen had agreed with her best friend. When Gwen had begun to court Arthur, she'd opened her mind to other explanations of old squabbles. She'd realized then that no one was ever altogether wrong. She'd learned the value of seeing both sides of the coin. "We need more than a treaty to bring peace between all the citizens of Camelot. We need understanding." She turned her gaze to her two defendants. "The both of you will host a cultural gathering this Yule."

Ethil's physical reaction was one that screamed _You expect me to work with HIM?_

Gwen continued. _"_ Brennis, you are on probation. Your rights as a knight of Camelot are revoked. We may reinstate them given the reaction at Yule." The King's Council straightened in their chairs and gaped at one another. They were obviously thinking, _Demote someone from Arthur's Council?_ But there was no interruption of anger, and she relaxed a fraction. "Ethil, I understand your frustration. I've experienced it myself with my father's death. But if you wish to be a citizen of Camelot, you must understand the trust we have for our knights. They earn their rank through effort and moral code. I expect you to learn to respect them."

Her voice projected through the hall, the fiery Gwen known only to the Round Table finally presented for the court to witness. "Whether you are a Druid, a noble, or a peasant, you are a citizen of these lands. Our actions, together, made this the best kingdom in Albion.

"Stay strong. Continue to do what is right by Camelot, and one day, we will be the greatest kingdom in history."

* * *

The words of Guinevere's speech wrapped around Arthur more comfortingly than the fluffy blanket he was tucked into. In his chamber's Solar Arthur curled into a wooden chair, and Merlin leaned nearby, more obviously listening in on the proceedings in the throne room below. At Guinevere's last line, their eyes met, and Merlin said, "Wow."

He smiled proudly, thinking of his wife and what she must look like on the dais. The expression may have been more sugary and romantic than he'd intended, because Merlin got that I'm-Trying-Not-To-Laugh face. "If you continue to giggle at your patients," Arthur griped, "you'll never graduate to Court Physician."

"Don't worry, Arthur. I'm happy to be your servant until the day you die." He walked forward and pressed his hand to Arthur's forehead. "And I'd hazard that will be a week longer at best."

"It's treason to threaten a King's life."

"The truth is the best medicine," Merlin quipped.

"Incorrect, Merlin. _Laughter_ is the best medicine. Read a book."

"Laughter, eh? You in the mood for a tickle fight?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "If you tried to get into my pants any harder, I'd think you were a princess from a rival kingdom."

Merlin barked in amusement. This was why arguing with Arthur could be so entertaining. "Foiled again."

Arthur made a show of protectively tightening the blanket around his body, and Merlin went over to the small cauldron of broth he'd brought. With his back to his king, he was able to quickly warm a bowl before pushing it beneath Arthur's aquiline nose. There was no argument because Arthur's throat was perpetually sore these days.

After some spoonfuls, Merlin deemed Arthur sated enough for a serious conversation. "Removing the tokens in honor of Drystan was an interesting twist, but I don't know if that is enough."

Arthur agreed. "She's already got Leon running patrols, but there's not much else we can do. There's no proof that Drystan was killed by a Druid, even if everyone believes it." He narrowed his eyes at a goopy piece of boiled fat, deciding whether it was edible. "Iseldir will have to come for Yule now, and we can question him on any new archers in his camp."

"You trust him to tell you the whole truth?" Merlin asked curiously.

"No one ever tells the whole truth in politics," Arthur replied after flicking the fat at Merlin's hair. He missed, but didn't seem put out. "But Brennis will have spent a few weeks in Iseldir's camp by the celebration. He'll be another set of eyes."

Merlin's mouth popped open. "I never expected Gwen to be so devious."

"Don't be distracted by her breasts, Merlin. She's got a sharp mind."

With a knowing look, "You learned that lesson the hard way, didn't you?"

"I love Guinevere for her personality," Arthur smirked. "And for giving me the opportunity to make you wear ceremonial robes again."

"You'll never know where I hid those."

Arthur grinned, believing he was on an argumentative winning streak. "When you lose the bet on your imaginary word, would you prefer a pansy that matches the robes or your countenance?"

Merlin thought about it. "I'd prefer one that matched your petticoat." He complimented himself for using Arthur's own insults against him. "But, I'm not going to lose."

Merlin's dark eyebrow rose, and a smirk crawled onto his face. This was the confident expression that drove Arthur up the wall, and it was a weapon Merlin had perfected during the dice match. As expected, Arthur had to react. "What makes you so sure?"

"Geoffrey has a very special toast planned in your honor this Yule, and who better to help than the apprentice of his best friend, and the manservant of the king himself?" Merlin gloated. "Where do you think Dollophead should fit in your official title? After or before Champion of the People?"

Arthur was quick. "How about precisely after Geoffrey describes my useless manservant?"

* * *

Over the two weeks leading up to the Yule feast, Arthur returned to full health. Brennis had been forced to hang his Camelot cloak and regalia, and though funded by the Pelham estate, chose to leave under cover of night with Ethil for Iseldir's camp. Gwen's decisions were questioned by some used to power, but Arthur's pleased acceptance quieted them quickly.

As for Merlin, with a festival to prepare on top of the usual Yule feast, his life as a manservant ramped up. In between cleaning and laundry, there were decorations to retouch, game to salt, and speeches to assist. Despite all of this, Merlin still found the time to leave a little stanza on Arthur's pillow every day.

" _A father whom kissed a troll / and struggled to sire a clotpole"_ had been one of his best. It made Arthur so nervous that Merlin had found him skulking around Geoffrey's mountain of scrolls later that evening. Today, the day of the feast, he'd dropped _"Arthur of the Pendragon's was more than sword and skill / he was a ham with a belly to fill"_ in between two rolls of bread. Arthur had thrown one at his head. (Merlin ate it - and victory had been delicious.)

Less fortunately, the court librarian swiftly shot down every phrase he'd come up with. He had to hope that the elderly man wouldn't catch the _dollophead_ rhyme he'd slipped into the last draft; there wasn't any time left for trickery. In fact, right now, he was already quite late to his appointment with the clothier - he needed to steam the wrinkles from Arthur's evening clothes.

Merlin bustled through the courtyard with his hands clapped over his ears to bare against the cold. Because of it, he didn't hear one of the gardeners calling his name. Someone had to flag him down, and only then did he see the man on the ladder holding up two colored garlands.

The gardener held both out in question, and Merlin pointed at the more reflective fabric. It would be dark soon, and if someone was going to go through the effort of stringing the exterior of the castle, they might as well be able to see their efforts later.

He hadn't gone much further when a kitchen servant burst from the castle's double doors, spotted him, and latched onto his arm. She called, "Where is the third sack of potatoes?"

Merlin was surprised to be asked. He generally relied on Audrey, the head cook, to provide Arthur's meals, and he wasn't so base as to go stealing from the winter stores. "Don't we keep a spare bag in the cellar, with the wines?"

The servant shrugged, but smiled gratefully, hurrying off. Merlin shook off the confusion and kept going; the whole week had been like this. Perhaps there was a sign on his back.

He kept his head down and made it past the kitchens - in an uproar apparently because the Yule boar had been oversalted - but was accosted again. This time, the distressed expression on Lila's face stopped him; the painfully shy Candlemaker's Assistant was too nice to deny. "I don't have enough candles," she admitted quietly, forlorn in the servant's passageway.

"Arthur won't notice," he reassured her, trying not to fidget.

"Right," she agreed, looking down at her heavy wooden shoes.

Merlin let an internal sigh rinse him clean, and he smiled brightly. "Let's go see where you set them up. We can redecorate!"

In the Great Hall, he spent a period climbing on expensive furniture. From the new heights he reached sconces hung on the stone walls, then used a ceremonial knife to slice the taller candles in half. Getting the wicks loose had taken a bit of magic, but Lila hadn't noticed.

After the last modified candle had been put in place he hopped to the ground, pleased with his quick thinking. He winked at the blush burning her cheeks, taking that as enough thanks, and bounced away for Arthur's chambers. The revered king had tossed an unmatching outfit on his sheets alongside a note that said, _"Deal with these,"_ in his quick scrawl. _"And wear something fancy / you'll have to match your pansy."_

Merlin rolled his eyes; Arthur did not a poet make. And after all that work to pretend like he'd taught Arthur poetry - it was almost insulting.

Alas, Merlin was a good friend, and so he picked out a better outfit for Arthur before scuttling for the clothier. It should have come as no surprise that he never got close - a youth with a mop of brown hair was smiling sheepishly at him not two steps from the chamber doors. (The party for investing time in discovering the spell for full invisibility was starting to gain traction.)

This was Brennis' former page, and the boy held out his hands for Arthur's clothes. "I'll take those if you help Sir Brennis in the Hall of Ceremonies."

"What's going on?" he asked, after groaning and accepting.

"The Druids starting arriving, and someone said they had thirty Yule Goats—"

"Thirty goats?!" Merlin yelped, but the boy only shrugged and ran off with Arthur's outfit. He paused, hanging his head. "Great!"

* * *

There were goats, but fortunately they were all made of straw.

"They're a gift," Iseldir said with a wry grin. "A toy for the children." The Hall of Ceremonies was usually reserved for knighting ceremonies and weddings, but now it bustled with Druids and peasants who were all busy setting up 'stalls'. It was loud enough to cover their conversation, and so at Merlin's raised brow, Iseldir continued. "You've noticed their magic?"

"It looks like a shield spell," Merlin replied.

This made Iseldir cock his head, and Merlin remembered that most people didn't see spells the way he could now. "A small one," he conceded. "The last sheaf of grain has an innate magic, and we use it to protect the harvest."

"How?" Merlin asked, intrigued. He picked up one of the goats in his hand and focused on the golden magic. It seemed concentrated near the head. "I never tried anything like this in Ealdor."

"We've noticed braiding grass helps," he replied, pointing to the horns curling back from behind the head.

On closer inspection, Merlin understood why. The tightly woven antlers served as a backbone for the crisscrossing pattern of the shield. Though, there was something odd about it. "This isn't just a shield for physical protection."

Iseldir looked at him oddly again. "How are you testing it? Or have you figured out a way to hide gold irises?"

He hedged. "It doesn't feel familiar."

Iseldir frowned, but accepted that. "You felt right. Our spell complements a minor protection against spectral draugr. Have you ever noticed that the veil is thinner on the midwinter solstice?"

He grimaced. "Should I be worried?"

Iseldir gave him a knowing look, "Do you know of someone who would take advantage?" Merlin flinched - so Iseldir knew he'd helped Morgana. Thoughts of her only reminded him that he had no idea what she was plotting. He'd kept procrastinating on searching her out, and that may have invited some attack on Camelot tonight.

He rubbed tiredly at his neck. Sometimes there were just too many things to deal with. "You've met Aithusa, then? How is she?"

"Better," Iseldir soothed. He could tell that he'd disquieted Merlin. "Bleise has some skill with healing spells, and the youngling usually spends a few days with us before searching out more wandering Druids."

"Thank him for me," he answered honestly. Sound swelled in the room, and it gave both men space to remember the other duties laden upon them. Merlin's mind began to run with the schedule for the rest of the evening. Would he have time to slip away? "I should get back to Arthur."

While Merlin placed the Yule goat back among the others at the booth, Iseldir bent his head in farewell.

* * *

Half a room away, Leon saw their exchange and interpreted it as simple assistance: to him, Merlin seemed to help arrange some figurines and then leave with quick strides. The rest of the Hall of Ceremonies bubbled with similar high energy, and the excitement bled into his own emotions. He felt more like a visitor enjoying the event than a knight of Camelot.

Of course he had duties, as Captain of the Guard they never waned, but he put them aside to see what Brennis and Ethil had helped spur. It was research - and if it also helped him pick out a gift for Forridel, then all the better.

He followed the crowd to the right wall of the hall, where one of Master Finch's artisans was chipping away at a white stone block. It looked to be a rough gargoyle, and the young Aglain of the Druids was staring in rapt attention. Leon tapped him on the shoulder. "Did you bring any of your wood carvings?"

Aglain beamed. His eyes darted, likely looking for Elyan, and even though he didn't find him, still nodded enthusiastically. "I've been practicing. For the celebration I thought I'd try to imitate a castle. I've only ever seen Odin's but…" he snatched a wooden tower from a stall, "I still think it looks similar to Camelot!"

Leon inspected it. The boy had done a fantastic job with the ramparts. He imagined commissioning models built for all the castles in the realm, then realized he was thinking militaristically again. "What's the going rate? It will be a great gift for Elyan."

Aglain bounced, but wasn't much of a salesman. Leon held out change for a silver. "This is quite a bit, but it's worth it." After a moment, "You should put your name on it. All the artisans of Camelot leave their mark somewhere on their work."

"I…" Aglain started, nose wrinkling. "I could do an 'A'?"

"So Elyan knows it's from you too." He leaned against the booth and looked out on the hall as Aglain dug with his pocketknife. "What should I check out next?"

A herd of children blew by, all newly decorated with intricate bows made from linen scraps. He couldn't tell if they were from the Lower Town, the Druid tribes, or both. He supposed it didn't really matter. Aglain responded, "Have you played a round of darts?"

He'd never heard of it, and Aglain pointed it out in the far corner. "The other guards like it. We usually play it around camp."

It was interesting - a circle of worn leather, small sharp stones lashed to rigid twigs, and a test of your aim. Leon had lost to the Druid who had brought the game, but it had been fun. They should have something like this in the tavern. Then there had been potted evergreen branches, dolls, pottery, and for entertainment, storytellers and fire dancers. It was fascinating.

He didn't realize how much time he'd spent here until the head cook stuck her head into the hall and bellowed, "Food's out! Get it while it's hot!"

* * *

Iseldir heard the call for the banquet, and noticed some of his people looking at each other - checking to see who would go first. The invitation for the feast itself had not been explicit.

He trusted that half the reason for the cultural gathering was to prove Druids were not second-class citizens of Camelot, and that meant they could eat at their will. _"You aren't hungry?"_ He mentally asked the magical folk that could hear him, then crooked a finger at a few others. He didn't pretend to know the way to the Great Hall, but a friendly servant was happy to lead him.

He entered to see a room lit with candles and smiles, and the undercurrent of feeling was one of welcome and friendship. It was almost too much to ask for - he had to push himself to a wall and take a moment to breathe. Hope is a fleeting and dangerous thing for a Druid, and it had blown wide within him. It was staggering, and something he desperately wanted to reign back. It was much too early for expectations, and he was much too old for wishes.

Iseldir sought Emrys in the crowd and found him nibbling at a skewer of meat. He looked regal, dressed in a finely crafted blue tunic and missing his usual neckerchief. Iseldir watched him grin at something the king said, then cast his eyes around, finding the gaze that had been watching him. _"Iseldir,"_ he greeted warmly.

He smiled, then offered, _"From my side, the Yule celebration is going extremely well. My tribe is happy here."_

He watched Emrys brighten, and sensed the genuine emotion through their mental link. _"I felt the same from the people of Camelot. They love having you."_ Emrys' answering grin was laced with giddiness, _"Camelot's that much closer to being ready for magic."_

Iseldir swallowed. _"You're looking ahead."_

 _"I have to. The Purge Trial isn't so far away."_ He cocked his head, _"You'll be there?"_

 _"Of course,"_ Iseldir realized why he'd asked and felt another jolt, _"You're going to stand trial, aren't you?"_

Emrys' gaze steadied, and Iseldir glimpsed the leader he'd only dared hope for. _"It's time I did."_

Sir Gwaine jostled closer, aiming for Emrys' attention, and Iseldir ended the conversation with a subtle bow.

It made Merlin blush, but Gwaine's voice shouting in his ear pulled him back to his position behind Arthur at the long table. "Mate, there you are!"

The knight sashayed forward and flicked his hair out of his eyes. "Princess," he greeted Arthur, earning a rude gesture from the blonde. Gwaine drew Merlin away by the elbow, and when a few steps back from the table, raised an eyebrow. "You spaced, mate. Where's your head at?"

Instead of the truth, Merlin saw this as a good opportunity to ask a favor. "Nothing ever goes smoothly around here. I was hoping for some time to head off any threats."

"Oh?" Gwaine said, then waggled his eyebrows and dramatically asked, "Magical threats?"

"A codeword would be nice," Merlin said drily.

"Call me a genius later, but magic is its own codeword." He made the same facial expression as earlier, wiggling his fingers and laying the sarcasm on thickly as he repeated the word: "Magic." He shrugged. "When I say it like that, no one would ever believe I actually meant, y'know," he made the moves again, " _magic._ "

Sarcastically, "How did I ever keep my secret without your help?"

Gwaine chuckled, "I'll distract our favorite prat," he said, then launched into a rendition of the uproar Leon had caused by formerly introducing Forridel to the head of his family. Merlin had a feeling some scenes were slightly exaggerated. Though, Gwaine's depression over a thrown apple pie was certainly not faked.

The hall stomping their feet for quiet pulled his attention to Geoffrey of Monmouth, rising now and clearing the phlegm from his throat. The burst of sound had the opposite effect, but the festivities were already underway and gay, and Geoffrey didn't seem to mind.

"Oftentimes when turning over in mine own mind the many themes that might be subject matter of a poem," Geoffrey started, droning into some iambic pentameter and losing the crowd further. Arthur turned about in his chair and an evil smile drew along his face.

"My thoughts would fall upon the plan of writing a history of the Kings of Albion.  
It is a marvel that there is naught mention of Arthur,  
for his deeds be worthy of praise everlasting  
and are already pleasantly rehearsed from memory by word of mouth."

Merlin groaned aloud. He had a deadening suspicion that he'd given Arthur too much time to make terminal edits. Geoffrey went on, most ignoring him, but a token few who knew of the unfortunate bargain between Merlin and Arthur hung on, enthralled.

The historian went through the crowning, the overthrow of Agravaine and Morgana, continuing on into the more recent treaties with Annis and Iseldir. Then the moment—

"Though the future is foggy and hard to see,  
And treacherous the paths we may tread,  
We follow one who pens dragons, he,  
Arthur, our king, of level head."

"Fie!" Merlin cursed, and Arthur broke into loud applause. The hall followed his lead, and while Geoffrey was busy beaming and bowing, Arthur swiveled, and his hand reappeared from his pocket twirling a purplish pansy.

Merlin crossed his arms. Petulantly, he said, "For me, sire? What will your wife think?"

Arthur had no qualms getting to his feet and tucking the pansy into place himself - this festival was not so formal as to dictate perfect decorum. "Remember, Merlin: the entire feast."

* * *

Camelot in Midwinter is a party to ache for all the long winter nights before it, and Morgana remembers it vaguely. She doesn't expect to ever attend in full celebratory spirit again, but in some strange twist she wakes to find herself in her old room.

She finds this queer, because the last thing she remembers is the Leshy forcing a draught lightly dosed with hemlock down her gullet.

She swings her feet from her bed, and cold stone makes her toes curl. She's looking down at her nightdress - suddenly not a nightdress but a gown of emerald green - when the doorknob begins to turn. Then the second shock of the night - Gwen, in royal maroon and bejeweled crown.

"Why are you hiding in here?" Gwen asks merrily.

The queen sweeps through the room and snags Morgana by the elbow. Familiar brown fingers comb their way comfortably through Morgana's dark curls, and their lost friendship lurches at the leisurely movements.

She tugs them out into the hall, and guards wave jauntily at them. "Just taking a nap," she replies stiffly, awash in surrealism.

"I thought you may be writing him a response," Gwen arches a delicate eyebrow, referencing something Morgana has no idea about. Gwen rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "I saw the courier come in."

Gwen bumps their shoulders together. It makes Morgana break out in goosebumps. "What do you expect me to say?"

She gives her a pitying look, "Oh, no, did I read everything wrong? Did you actually like him?" Even as she says this, though, Gwen is glowing and bouncing.

Her mind stretches back through the years and guesses, "You're extremely happy about something."

Gwen flushes, "I can't hide anything from you." But she smiles widely and leans conspiratorially inward, unable to keep the secret. "I've missed it again!" Her hand skims over her still-tight belly and she gushes, "I really think I am, this time."

They're in the throne room now, and it looks strange from this angle - one where she isn't actively seeking it. Shouldn't she kill Gwen and take the crown from her bloody locks?

A knight calls for the queen, and both ladies turn. He bows to them, and asks for Gwen's arm to escort her elsewhere. Still weirdly detached from the goings on around her, Morgana watches the conversation through a hue of disassociation. The knight is genuinely honored by their presence, and Gwen looks like a goddess on earth. This woman turns twinkling eyes to her and pushes her towards the king's chambers. "Get the boys?" she asks. "And don't say a word about this," her fingers twitch for her stomach, "not even Merlin."

Then she leaves her alone, and Morgana is standing in the empty throne room. She vividly remembers her last time here. She'd felt so secure in her victory, finally in control of her life and destiny. Then her magic had disappeared.

She takes sharp steps to stand before the second throne. There are two now - likely because Gwen is the queen. Her hands trail over the metal and instead of fierce resolve she gets hollow want. Not so long ago she'd received a heady rush while lounging in this symbol of power - now, it looks only like an empty chair that doesn't want her.

She flips away and pushes for the king's chambers. The doorknob turns beneath her hands, and she enters to a mostly empty room. Merlin's bare back is towards her, and he's tugging his old tunic over his head. Behind him, servile dress robes are abandoned over the back of a sturdy chair.

"I don't trust you," is what she says. "No matter what Gwen says."

He turns in surprise, caught in his shirt, hair awry. She watches his expressive features as he comes to some conclusion, and of all things, chuckles. "She told you then?" He takes a few seconds to straighten himself out, then walks towards her. "It's true, Morgana. He's just not that into you."

"What are you talking about?" She glares at him as he looks down at her, blue eyes dancing with mirth.

"I don't think he swings your way, if you get my meaning. In fact, I think the Prince of Amata prefers blue-eyed manservants," the laugh sneaks out from his lips and he makes a stupid snort-cough sound.

When Morgana narrows her eyes he finally begins to catch onto her mood. Since he's focused on her, he does that thing he does - tilts his head, drawls slowly. "Is something wrong?"

She is torn in two wicked directions. He puts a comforting hand on her shoulder and his furrowed expression clears. "Don't worry, he'll be here. Actually…" he trails off, looks at something behind her. His fingertips dig into the silk of her gown, and he's turning her slowly, then bending down to grin and say near her ear, "I think he just made it."

A cold eel slides from her sinuses to her gut, then coils in slimy marriage with the acid of her stomach. This is a nightmare.

It's her father.

"Morgan!" Gorlois says, a pet nickname he knows she hates. "Come 'ere!"

She raises her hands slightly, and he does all the work. He smells like armour polish and snow and a little bit like gingerbread because he probably stopped for a snack, and he always loved baked goods. His arms around her feel like home.

In a horrible union of thought she knows she doesn't want to let him go, and that this is an impossible dream. Her vapour fingers ghost through unreal fabric and she knows she's long lost the possibility of this future. Her father's hold fades to memory, and she comprehends that the warm embrace is only her body heat trapped beneath the Leshy's decaying leaves. It stinks of mold and maggots.

Her loneliness and self-hatred hit in one felling swoop, and her composure fragments. In the cracks, she cries.

This is how it feels: like your limbs are heavy. Like you're so embarrassed and disgusted by your own self that you can't look at the body stretching down beneath your eyes. Like you'll put the full force of your attention on any numbing distraction just so that you don't have to face who you are.

And while all of that is sitting on you, and you know it's there and that all it would take to get rid of it at least partially is to get up and do one thing, there's no point because who is there to notice? No one is going to see you either way. What does it matter if you're dirty or you reek.

You're so alone, and there's no one to blame but yourself. Oh gods, you just want your mother or your father or your sister or anyone that will love you, but you don't deserve love, not as you are now, this unmoving thing. Why should anyone even want to save that.

Why should anyone even want to save _her_.

Yet stunningly, someone does.

She's sobbing loudly and ugly, she's so cold and lethargic and sick, and through the haze of self-inflicted pain she sees an old, wrinkled woman staring at her. And somehow that woman understands. Somehow, that wizened face knows her for everything that she is.

Through a connection thinned only to shared history, those blue eyes tell her that she's never really been alone.

* * *

 _Ring of Fire sung by Lera Lynn_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Yule is sort of a classical Christmas - a midwinter celebration. Some facts that I pulled and modified for my purposes were: 'draugr' - undead beings had an increased likelihood to walk the earth, 'Veneration of ancestors', 'Yule goat', 'Yule boar', and various modern Christmas decorations.  
(2) May be important to note again that I picture the King's chambers as two stories (bedroom and Solar), and the throne room as two stories (lower floor, and catwalk i.e. remember when that archer was going to kill Arthur but instead killed the Sarrum in S5). You get to the king's chambers through the throne room.  
(3) Lots of OCs, not many important ones. For a summary I'd recommend going to Chapter 28 of Part 1, which has a brief overview of all these random OCs. (Audrey, Brennis, Ethil, Lila, the pageboy, the Prince of Amata, Aglain, and Bleise.)  
(4) Geoffrey's toast is partially pulled from his book _"A History of the Kings of Britain"_.  
(5) Dmarie1184 helped me realize the other uses of hemlock - in small doses it helps people sleep.

 **Author's Note:**

Hope you enjoyed the closing credits.

Let me start off by thanking the beautiful people that this chapter wouldn't exist without. So little of this chapter is ideas from my own mind. They are my Round Table. If anyone out there is writing, I can only hope you have half the support group I do. Thanks to: [Flash edit!] FanWhovianChick, for getting me thinking that Brennis should now escort Ethil, since he killed her brother. Lya200 for a comment on how Gwaine could blatantly talk about magic and no one would look twice. Linorien, for being a wonderful beta and giving me so many ideas for Yule scenes. Jewels, for very much helping me solidify Gwen's thoughts for her speech and Merlin's busyness during preparations. And Dmarie1184, for giving me the courage to write Morgana's depression. You may not remember that conversation, but I do.

There is quite a bit to remark on this chapter, but I will comment on just this. I know Morgana's last scene in the forest is in no way my best writing, but it, in part, comes from a very real part of my life. I'm proud of myself for at least trying to put it into words. However, I think being saved is something only from fiction. When Morgana is stung by the serket, Aglain comes to save her. When she's dying in the forest, Aithusa heals her. And now when she's sunk so low, this old woman. She's lucky, in a way. I think we've all hit rock bottom at some point, but we've all had to take that first step back up alone. As for me, that first step was the first chapter of Part 1.

I really am glad I did it. Though I only know most of you through reviews, I feel a kinship. Lovely meeting you all.

 **Next time:** Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight.


	13. Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

—

 **Sir Gawain and the Green Knight  
** _Yule_

Gwaine is sprinkling a heavy dose of salt into Percival's abandoned plate when it happens.

Merlin has slipped out of the Yule feast to check the perimeter, and Gwaine is meant to stay behind and make up excuses for his absence. There's no need, however, so he uses the spare time on plots for retribution. His prank quota is no laughing matter and Percival is owed retaliation. In this instance, revenge would be salty.

As such, things were going normally. It could have gone down as a fairly good party - could have been better, more ale, etc. - but Gwaine liked the decorations: they're very homey and warm, everything smells nice, and the attendees are hunky-dory. He looked around the Great Hall at the gregarious Druids and knights, at Leon and Forridel laughing, at Arthur planting a kiss on Gwen's cheek, and noticed Percival was distracted by children. Well, maybe it was a bit evil to take advantage of a situation involving cute kids, but that wasn't the guilt trip that would keep him up all night.

No, that guilt burst through the doors of the Great Hall on a horse.

"Where is the son of the widow Aranna!"

Gwaine choked. Arthur stood to his feet. "Who are you, and what's your purpose here?"

The warrior astride the horse had a deep, booming voice and a hulking figure covered head to toe in burnished armor. A halberd was lashed to his broad back, and a helmet with slits for airflow hid his face. "I am an axe of Caerleon, and I seek a defector." As an unfortunate pennant, he had a holly garland snagged on the spear point of his weapon, and it swung through the air as the warrior talked animatedly.

"I don't know of a Caerleon warrior in Camelot," Arthur said.

"Because he is hiding from the both of us, using the glory of your ranks as a shield for his cowardice."

Arthur so quickly defended his accused knight that Gwaine's honor was salvaged before he could think to draw Galatine. "My knights are not cowards. You have marched your vendetta into a celebration of unity, and my knight has rightly chosen not to turn it into a battlefield."

Gwen cleared her throat, "In that vein, you can dismount and share a meal with us, or you can return at some later date."

The warrior slowly rotated his head as if he were studying each of the red-cloaked knights. "Dine with a deserter? I think not. Let him know that in one week we meet in the Fortress of Idirsholas, and from there he swears his sword to my house, or his blood waters the ruins."

Arthur scoffed lightly. "He has no reason to meet you, if those are his options."

"Hiding is always an option. His sister can always pay their debt through dowry."

Watching the warrior turn on his horse and ride from the Great Hall had been difficult for a number of reasons. Gwaine felt he had waited too long to meet the challenge presented, and it would look ridiculous to jump up now that Arthur had already supported his silence. However, being called a coward while unable to defend himself was frustrating. Worse still, the guilt hung him. He knew he had abandoned his sister to deal with the shame of a penniless noble house, their waif of a mother, and this fresh icing: self-serving debt collectors. Though blackmail had been the foregone conclusion as soon as he'd sent Ari some spare coin.

The desire to help her had not waned, but it remained stuck in the mire of the life he loved in Camelot. He wanted to stay here without the troubles of old nobility, with the men he considered brothers.

Percival plunked down onto the bench beside Gwaine. "That was strange, eh? Who rides around a castle on a horse?"

Gwaine had no ready quip, and at his halfhearted shrug Percival quirked a brow. "Are you alright? You're looking a little green."

He should have told the truth right then, but the thought exhausted him. It was too much to explain, and his patience was shot. He just needed some space to think.

He looked for Merlin in the crowd, knowing the secret warlock would understand, would help him get out of here for a bit, and wouldn't force a decision just yet. Gwaine wanted the acceptance he'd so readily given Merlin all these weeks, but Merlin was not here to provide it.

Merlin's absence was especially conspicuous after claiming to head off any threats, magical or otherwise. In Gwaine's opinion, a mysterious warrior throwing down gauntlets fell perfectly into those categories. Merlin should have been here.

Where was he?

* * *

"You look horrible."

The last of Morgana's tears slide down her cheeks, and she focuses on brilliant blue eyes, "Like you're any better, you old bag."

She isn't lying. Wispy white hair frames a wrinkled face made wan by a ragged black cloak, and from beneath it's unflattering folds comes one bony finger that pokes Morgana's forehead. "You're sick? It figures I'd show up just in time to decide whether or not to let you die."

" _Let_ me die? I am the best healer in Albion."

"Oh, says who? Your pet rock?"

She's still a little befuddled from her dream so she sputters, "I've earned my title as High Priestess!" before she thinks to say, "Insult me again and I will rip your tongue out."

The old woman snorts, "You can't even sit up." Then she waves a hand at the empty firepit, "And what is this? Can't light a fire? You should be embarrassed."

"So you've come to insult me? To kick me when I'm down? To tell me I'm worth nothing, that I am nothing?" Morgana barks, still prone on the ground and covered in a blanket of the Leshy's leaves, "Well I don't care what you think, and I don't care to impress you."

At that the old woman shrugs, "Your opinion isn't high on my list either," and then withdraws to poke around the clearing.

There is not much to see. There is a pile of sticks covered in snow, the dugout firepit ringed in flat stones, and some clay pots tossed aside. There is a circle of dirt in the center where the Leshy sometimes comes to sit, but no roof, no clothesline, and no hidden armies.

When the old woman has had her fill, she returns to stand above Morgana's head. They stare at one another for minutes long enough for Morgana to wonder what this old woman could possibly want from her, and to muse on where she may have met the female before. Then, since she's staring, she sees gold swirl through irises and feels a short burst of magic as the fire lights.

It's strange, because Morgana feels like she'd have a better memory of someone powerful enough to use magic without motion or verbiage, "Do I know you?"

The gold fades away, and even the gaze feels familiar. "You do," the witch admits softly. "But to keep things simple, know me now as The Dolma."

"Well, _Dolma_ ," Morgana says as the fire brings feeling back to the tip of her left ear, sending it tingling, "I don't trust you. But there is nothing left for you to take, so I don't fear anything you could do to me, either."

The Dolma is silent for a moment. "Is that why you were crying?"

She glowers, "I was not —"

"Why lie? You said you didn't care to impress me."

"The truth then?" Morgana turns her face away, "I don't want to tell you. You don't deserve to know."

"Fair enough," the Dolma resigns, then with another burst of silent magic brings a log near the fire to use as a seat. From this vantage point Merlin, as the Dolma, mulls the gauntness of Morgana's cheek, her pale skin, and her cracked lips. It brings to mind the phrase 'beauty is only skin deep', because Morgana doesn't even have that anymore. She looks like death.

The fire spits and crackles, and he levitates more logs into the flames. Enough time passes for him to think Morgana has fallen asleep, but then the sickly witch whispers, "Have you come to kill me?"

Again she surprises him, and he turns to her.

"Back when I was in Camelot," she whispers again, telling her story to the fire, "the night before every burning or beheading, the Court Physician would visit the prisoners. He would talk with them, and pass along a tonic for serenity."

He hates this, because he doesn't know whether to pity her or consider this Morgana's due punishment. He had come here expecting to fight her for Camelot's well-being, and instead he found her broken, again. "The truth, Morgana," he says in the Dolma's croaky voice, "is I've got no idea what to do about you."

* * *

Merlin spends most of the night in the Leshy's clearing, Morgana's sleeping form a muse for his confused thoughts. He doesn't trust her, nor want to trust her, but Aithusa left a strange image in his mind that he cannot let slip, and it holds him there.

Similarly, Gwaine spent the night dozing on top of Merlin's cot, waiting for him to return, while his father's seal hung heavy around his neck. It yielded a night of fitful sleep, but the clanging of the morning bell jolted him awake and he launched into a seated position, blinking down at his boots.

He had six days to figure out the Caerleon Conundrum, and Merlin hadn't returned. He dug a knuckle into the crust of his eye. _Ugh_ , he had a headache.

Worse - he had guard duty.

He grumbled to his feet, scratching at a dried food stain on his tunic, and inched Merlin's bedroom door open. Gaius was quite awake, leaning over his potions table, and now offering Gwaine a raised brow. "Something I should know?" The old man said.

"I miss how he smells," Gwaine flippantly responded as he clomped down the stairs. Then, more serious once he was near to exiting, "Will you tell me when he gets back?"

"I'll send him to find you," Gaius offered, and Gwaine thanked him, a frown on his face. The frown remained as he journeyed to his allotted place at the front gate. Usually this was a guards job, but with all the Druids passing in and out of Camelot for Yule, Arthur had requested knights take their place temporarily.

Once there Gwaine practiced his scowl until the sun had risen more fully into the sky, and Percival and Elyan came to meet him. The former held a loaf of bread under his arm, and he split it three ways once he'd sufficiently made Gwaine's stomach grumble over it. "We thought we'd join you."

Gwaine munched on his bread, appreciative for multiple reasons, "Don't expect me to thank you."

"Oh, we expect it," Elyan joked, and drew his sword. "Kneel!"

"You'll have to slice my feet off first," Gwaine smirked.

Elyan grinned and twirled his sword, "Don't tempt me."

"Children," Percival interrupted, before things could escalate, "finish your meals first."

Gwaine chuckled and bit another hunk off his bread. Percival was watching him acutely, and he began to feel self-conscious. Did his friend somehow know the Caerleon warrior had been talking about him? Had he reacted too obviously last night? Then he felt the squish between his teeth, tripped with confusion, and, in the hunk of bread still in his hand, saw the half-eaten worm.

He spat onto the cobblestones. Percival grinned, "That was for the salt."

Gwaine gagged, "Unequal punishment."

Elyan slipped his sword back into its sheath, "It was also for putting animal glue in my favorite scabbard."

Gwaine couldn't help grinning even as he wiped his tongue of worm skin. Watching Elyan trip over himself during training had been worth it. "Maybe I should join Holly-Halberd in Caerleon, if this is how I'm going to be treated."

He picked the dead worm from the rest of his loaf in an excuse to hide his face. _What a dumb joke to make,_ he berated himself.

"About that," Elyan's brow creased, "any idea which knight he was talking about?"

Gwaine made a spectacularly lackluster sound and motion combo, and Percival asked, "What would you do in his position?"

Elyan looked askance, "If it were Gwen's life at stake…" he trailed off and frowned. "When Gwen was exiled, I tried to go with her. She convinced me to stay. I regretted my acceptance until the day she returned."

They remained deferentially quiet until they started to eye Gwaine, waiting for his babbling personality to take over. He coughed. "If it were my sister, I wouldn't abandon her."

His tone didn't escape Percival. "You have a sister?"

Gwaine stuffed the rest of the bread in his mouth and chewed with his mouth open. _I'm an idiot._ "So," he said, spraying crumbs, "do you think Arthur is serious about fighting the warrior himself?"

"Definitely," an amused smile tugged at Elyan's lips, "did you forget Geoffrey's speech so soon? We've got the 'Champion of the People' as our king."

"Great," Gwaine replied.

"We're going with him - the whole Round Table will, probably. Then at least we'll be there to show support if the real guy shows up."

He swallowed. Was Camelot's bread always this dry? "Even greater."

* * *

Avoiding the truth all day aggravated Gwaine's headache, and that, compounded on his worry for his airhead sister and dodgy best friend, put him in a foul mood. When Merlin did finally come to find him, Gwaine nearly snapped his head off.

Merlin winced, "I heard the news from Arthur."

The warlock had shown up at the barracks as the winter sun disappeared beyond the pinnacles of the castle, and Percival had looked supremely confused as Gwaine walked out into the cold instead of allowing Merlin to come inside.

Merlin continued, "Is there anything I can do?"

He saw his own lack of sleep mirrored in Merlin's face, and his blame sagged. "I don't know." He drew his cloak around his shoulders and looked back into the warmth of the barracks. "Let's go for a stroll."

The barracks were on the eastern edge of the castle, and the nearest cleared path led them through the training grounds. On the far end of the grass plain it branched, and they chose to go north, past the stables.

Merlin tucked his hands into his pockets, "Sorry for not stopping that guy last night. There was nothing magical about him, so I didn't look twice."

"Not your job to protect me from my family's problems," Gwaine acquiesced with a sigh, but didn't let his second point go. "Where were you all night?"

"Dealing with Aithusa," Merlin answered seamlessly, then, masterfully, pushed the topic away. "I'm guessing you haven't told the other knights yet?"

"That would just complicate things right now."

Merlin didn't push. "Sometimes, in the short term, it's better to lie to your friends."

"Maybe," Gwaine frowned. "But Percival is too attentive for his own good. He made a comment just before you got here - said he would trade his knighthood for the opportunity to save his family from Cenred's army."

Merlin's mouth dropped open, "You're going back to Caerleon, aren't you?" He turned away with a grimace. "Of course. Actually, that's probably a good idea. Almost everyone I've ever trusted with my secret has died so it's probably only a matter of time, if you stayed."

Gwaine balked. "What? Fuck no, I'm not going back to Caerleon." He paused, "You think I'm going to _die?"_

Merlin waved a hand, "Nevermind." His eyebrows knit together, "So you're going to let this guy marry Ari and become the lord of your father's house?"

Gwaine was reeling now, stuck on Merlin's earlier comment. He shook his head roughly, and Merlin shoved him in embarrassment. He stumbled to the side, colliding with the wood of the royal stables, and an icicle shivered. "No," Gwaine finally said, for the third time that day but for the first time confidently. "I'm not letting him touch her."

"Good," Merlin said. "Good plan."

"Better plan," Gwaine said, making things up as he went along, "I'm riding for Caerleon tonight. I'm bringing Ari to Camelot."

The two men blinked at each other, then Gwaine swirled around and strode purposefully for the general stables. Merlin loped along behind. "Without a pack?"

"I'll think of something," Gwaine replied.

His red Camelotian clock flapped free, and his right hand went to the hilt of his sword, gripping it purposefully. He preferred this - something to _do_ , instead of waiting around and lying to his brothers.

Merlin shrugged, "Can I come?"

* * *

Uh… _duh_ the most powerful warlock in Albion could come.

A scant thirty minutes passed as Merlin left well-worded letters to excuse their absence, and Gwaine discretely packed what he could before saddling the horses. Now they were clustered within a stall, Gwaine gripping the bridle of both of their brown geldings while grinning giddily. Then he remembered the last time Merlin had pulled him magically through space, and he gulped. "I should prepare for vomit, shouldn't I?"

The words pulled Merlin from his contemplation. He had been muttering to himself for a minute or so now - something about tunnels. "If you're going to be sick, maybe I should hold the horses."

His forehead creased as he debated. "Nah, I'm good at vomiting. I'll be able to hold on to them."

Merlin rolled his eyes, "Drunkenness - the ultimate skill set." Then he clapped his hands and rubbed them together, his face hardening with determination. "Caerleon. Horses. One jump. I've got this."

Merlin grabbed the loops underneath each horse's bit, and closed his eyes. Caerleon had the closest capital to Camelot, only a two day hard ride, and it was definitely within his range for teleportation. However, the need for a large tunnel would take most of his magic, and he'd learned his lesson in that regard - he still had the scars.

So, he was going to try something new. And why not, he was only transporting one of his best friends and a pair of skittish animals. Trial by fire and all that.

He let out a breath, ensuring it was steady. It helped him focus on his thoughts and his body rather than the cold and Camelot's other noises. In his mind he watched his magic snap together into the tunnel of diamonds, and when he began to feel the strain, he bit his lip and ventured through the tear in his veil. Shakily, but as he'd practiced, he drew Albion's magic within himself, straightening it as best he could, and then pushing those golden bonds back out into his crystalline tunnel.

The second half of the spell was choppier, less elegant, and the four travelers felt it as the word _Ast_ _ý_ _re_ yanked them through. Seconds later they stumbled shakily onto solid ground.

"Whoa!" Merlin hissed as his own horse reared. In the shadows of Gwaine's childhood home the animal's eyes were panicked, and its strength almost too much for him to contain. "C'mon, Anemos," he tried hooting quietly, "it's just me. Everything is fine." His wrist twirled, and a square of salt materialized in his palm. "Calm down; have a treat."

It didn't help and, desperate now, Merlin said the next bit in dragon tongue: _"Anemos, please. It's over now, I promise."_

And, astonishingly, that worked. Anemos whimpered but ceased his frantic tugging, and Gwaine's placid horse leaned over and nipped the salt from Merlin's hand. Gwaine shook his head, only a little green with nausea, "So you're a horse-whisperer now?"

"I hope so," Merlin said, believing it was just coincidence, "Anemos has been a pain in my rear end since day one." (And cue the horse hoof in his buttocks.)

Merlin frowned and glared at the gelding while Gwaine chuckled and tied both animals to a hitching post. "Let's get inside. There's an entry over here."

The knight led them through a warped wooden door, hinges squealing, and put both men in a narrow storage room. Within it was as dark as pitch, but Gwaine's sturdy fingers found Merlin's sleeve and tugged him on ingrained paths. They were paths Gwaine had ran as a child and paced as a youth, but with adulthood came cobwebs and moldy hay and a pervasive aura of abandonment.

Then, in the darkness, a clatter.

Gwaine steered, and moments later they leaned into a square serving kitchen lit by moonlight. The glow flowed from windowsill to counter to floor, softly noting through shade and shadow the reminder of unwashed bowls and empty cabinets. Broken pottery, like an artist's still, weeped grey and white about a woman's forlorn figure, and in their midst she sat defeated.

Merlin went forward first, and Ari's eyes flickered with remembrance before flitting over his shoulder - and finding her brother. She breathed his name, disbelieving.

Then, after a blink and cognition, emotion blurred through her soft features and formed a complex creature bitter enough to bite, _"Gwaine,"_ with all the fury of a woman scorned.

* * *

"Ari," he started, "hear me out."

"No, you hear _me_ out!" She exclaimed, getting to her feet in choppy movements and gesturing wildly. Those motions became clenched fists and then a rigid finger poking stiffly into Gwaine's chest. "Where have you been, huh? I've never met someone so selfish! Living the high life, I bet! What, trade dad's ring for a job in Camelot?" She picked at his cloak with disgust.

"I earned my place in Camelot, and at the Round Table. Nobility isn't everything there."

Ari huffed, "Nobility does matter. It tells you things about a person before you ever meet them. Another noble is educated, and refined, and clean —"

Gwaine barked with an abrasive laugh, "If you're going to regurgitate the widow's words, I should never have come! I didn't realize I'd already lost you to brainwashing."

"You didn't lose _me_. I've been here the whole time!" She stomped, "And don't call her that!"

He crossed his arms, "It's what she is."

"She's our _mother,"_ she mirrored him.

"Fine!" He threw his hands up. "If you're so eager to be a noble like mother dearest, then marry him!"

Ari's mouth opened for another bout of vitriol, but as his words registered, the angry tilt of her eyebrows rose into shocked arches, "What?" Her arms drifted into the space between them, unsure what to attack now. "Marry who?"

"One of the Beddlers," he remarked scornfully. "Some warrior of theirs showed up in Camelot, claiming we owe them a debt, and your dowry was worthy payment."

" _Them?_ " Ari's confusion was palpable, "That can't be right." She bent for a handkerchief tucked into her bodice, and her curtain of glossy hair spilled over her shoulder. When she tossed it back she had produced a square of worn paper, which she then unfolded and stuffed in Gwaine's face. "See? We don't owe the Beddlers any money."

Gwaine's eyes flicked over the names and numbers and his anger built, "What would you need all that coin for?"

Ari shifted, "It was for Mother."

"And you're paying it willingly? How much of your life are you willing to sell for her?"

"I doubt—"

"You were collateral," he said, voice deadened. "She was expecting money in some other form to pay them back, and it never came."

After all her anger Ari's voice had dwindled to meek. "I didn't get the promotion."

Gwaine huffed, and gestured to say that explained everything. "So, we're leaving. It's time to give up this grasping life and start over, Ari."

She stilled, and her eyes saddened. She already knew the answer but she asked anyways, "All of us?"

Roughly, "Just you."

Now her eyes watered, and as she stuttered to argue the echo of a smack drew their attention. It was an intentional announcement of presence, and, wary, they waited in silence as shuffling feet and the drift of fabric on stone slunk towards them.

Gwaine had various images in his mind of his mother. He remembered the perfect, glowing goddess of his childhood that could do no wrong, and the bent and begging woman in Annis' court after his father had died. He had still loved her so much then, and seeing the higher nobles turn her away had bourne a pervasive resentment still seeking riposte. Unfortunately, all were overshadowed by the waif he'd watched drinking flower tea too expensive for the peasants they had become - obscured by the widow too proud to sell this empty manor he'd lucklessly returned to.

It was that memory he held like transparent film over the woman that strode into the servant's kitchen, brunette hair piled in curls a day in the making. Even without the rose tint of youth she was a striking woman, but he saw her only as that - just another woman.

"You thought you could sneak in here, like a thief in the night, and steal your dutiful sister away from her birthright?"

This was a woman who, without an upper class social circle to surround her, now had ample time to steep in her own thoughts. Thoughts that naturally trended manipulative, and given enough time to work, had stained even her own interpretation of reality. "Are you such a fool to think that your traitorous and weak mentality could sway her?"

"Call me what you want," Gwaine replied through ground teeth, "but at least I care about her more than I care about my status."

His mother, Aranna, smiled demurely. "You think you surpass status? Explain your knighthood then, son, and your servant in my kitchen."

Gwaine's eyes flicked to Merlin who put his hands in the air with a posture screaming _Don't bring me into this_. Although, he thought this was perfect proof of everything his mother had wrong. Merlin was exactly who she saw him as, but Gwaine had learned through comradery that this lowly servant was unbelievably more than his status. And even if he weren't - Merlin had been a better friend than any uptight noble he'd ever broke bread with.

Gwaine grinned, jaw locked. "Joke's on you. If he were my servant, I would never have made it in time to save Ari." He jerked a finger at Merlin. "He's my best friend."

Her mouth pulled to the side in distaste. "That's pitiable." Her eyes were cutting, and they scanned him head to foot, and found him lacking. "So this is what you offer after years of silence? I hoped for better after receiving your letter."

He sneered, "Nothing I've fought for is yours, regardless. Besides, don't you have a fast-track to aristocracy through arranged marriage all lined up?" He drew his sword. "Deny it."

She glared, and her lips pursed as if she'd swallowed a lemon. "Promised hands are a standard in our world."

Gwaine's voice was cold. "Go get your things, Ari."

In this way, Ari's soul was not strong. Her voice wavered and she implored, "Mom?"

Their mother's eyes softened. "Think of it, darling. You wouldn't have to work any longer." Ari began to shudder. "You would make a beautiful bride, and our house would flourish again."

 _Ironic_ , Gwaine thought, _but not surprising._ Dully, he finished this conversation. "Your 'house', mother, are your two alienated children standing in this kitchen."

"And children you are. What do either of you know of the way the world works? Being a peasant may seem fun and rebellious now, but you will regret a frivolous youth."

There would be no convincing her, and Ari finally realized that. She put a shaky hand on Gwaine's arm. "Mother," her voice shook too, "I'm sorry, but I can't marry someone for you. Can you take the offer back? Offer something else?"

"What else can I offer that would benefit us? You are the only thing."

Galatine went unwaveringly for her throat. "Call her a thing again so I can make you regret it."

Aranna could tell she was losing, and it vexed her. "Ari," she said, the imposition of guilt her next ploy, "you have no right to turn your back on me now. Leave and the Beddlers get our home, and I die this winter on the streets."

Ari's mouth trembled, but she shook her head with refusal. "I'm going with Gwaine. Please let me pass, so I can pack my things."

She whirled as Ari began to walk away, wide eyed as she lived a second scene of watching a child conclusively turn their back on her. "You two _ungrateful_ creatures! I gave the best years of my life, I sacrificed my dignity, for you both. Now you abandon me?"

No - she would not let this happen to her. Not this on top of everything else. So, even as her son and his servant pushed past her, Aranna yanked up her sleeve and revealed an intricate dagger primed against her forearm. Ari would have to stay if she had no Gwaine to take her. The girl had always been a little weak.

The servant was the last in line, so she went for him first. Pulled from its engraved sheath the blade rose high, and she clenched the handle in two hands. The sharp edge glinted in the moonlight. She aimed for the soft flesh between shoulder and neck then thrust downward, all her strength behind the stab.

With absolute certainty, she saw the point touch his skin.

And with stuttering reverb, she passed through empty space.

The shock froze her limbs as her mind tried to grasp how he could have moved so instantaneously, how he could have impossibly revolved around to stare at her so piercingly in a span less than a blink. Magic ignited in his eyes and the metal in her hand began to burn. He needn't have bothered, because Gwaine had already turned and swung her husband's sword with iron focus.

The blade struck her mercilessly in the temple. In a spray of blood, she crumpled.

Her daughter began to sob, and through a gaining fog she desperately gathered her reasons to live. She watched pensivity settle over Gwaine's face as he skimmed over her body spilled across his feet, and then to her daughter as Ari stumbled back to wilt into his shoulder. She watched them tuck into an embrace, and Aranna felt one regret sift above all others.

Denial had been the drug that led her astray, and she realized her entire family suffered from the same fatal addiction. The consequences played out in the years Ari had wasted trying to afford a false life, and the ways Gwaine would burn when others realized he was harbouring a sorcerer.

Nothing good came from avoiding the truth.

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) This is Part 1 of 2.  
(2) Sir Gawaine and the Green Knight is a story from legend, which I have borrowed and drastically altered for my purposes. In the legend, the Green Knight shows up carrying holly, an axe, and challenging Sir Gawaine to a duel.  
(3) A halberd is a type of axe.  
(4) Said to have happened on New Year's day, I chose our modern new year of Dec 31/Jan 1 for the final confrontation in Idirsholas instead of the classic new year in March. Yule is the classic Christmas.  
(5) Bredbeddle is the name the Green Knight calls himself in some of the poems. His real name is also said to be Bercilak de Hautdesert.  
(6) Merlin first met 'Ari the Airhead' in Caerleon where she was a failing kitchen scullion (Part 2, The Betas). Aranna, the mother, is a name Dmarie1184 came up with to give me a good combo for Gwyar and Anna. I've seen references saying his mother was Morgause, or Gwyar/Anna. Funnily enough, Gwyar translates to gore.

 **Author's Note:**

Since I can't post links, please search this hand drawn sketch by Jewels for Ch.7 The Audacity of Hope! Search "jewelshoolie deviantart Emrys" and it will be the top link. SO COOL TO SEE A PICTURE FOR A SCENE, especially when my skill set drops drastically as soon as I pick up a writing utensil. My skill set is more in the range of Gwaine's: drunkenness.

Similarly, Linorien made me some story covers that I keep trying to use but my computer or fanfiction is still having problems. I will keep trying. Thank Sam I Am and all his peculiarly colored eggs and ham for Linorien's help in convincing me not to time skip and cram Gwaine's arc into these 5000 words, and being a great brainstorming beta so that the following chapter is everything I need it to be. And thanks to the lovely ladies Dmarie and Jewelsmg for always being such supportive and great friends. And thank everyone else for reviewing - I am headed out to answer them all via PM right now.

One of the biggest themes in the original legend for the Green Knight is that of truth - how Gawaine is and isn't punished for lying/being truthful. I thought I'd see how that theme could play out in this Camelot.

 **Next Time:** _Gwaine and the Greenstalk._ The Round Table meets up in the Fortress of Idirsholas, there is a group hug of brotherly love, and the warrior waves away the debt. ( _Sure, Gwaine, you keep thinking that._ )


	14. Gwaine and the Greenstalk

—

 **Gwaine and the Greenstalk  
** _Late December - Early January_

"If we don't pick up the pace," Gwaine grumbled, "we'll make it to Idirsholas _next_ winter. Ari!" She ignored him. "Will you just ride on the sarding horse?"

Merlin whispered, and gestured to Ari stomping through the underbrush in front of their geldings. "Maybe she knows I have magic?"

"Doubt it, mate," Gwaine replied. "I think she was distracted by the blood."

Merlin grimaced. "I was too. Head wounds aren't very pretty."

 _The magic bled away from Merlin's eyes, the spell that had heated their mother's blade fading away with it. He stepped forward and lay a palm on the woman's neck, feeling through her lack of heartbeat what her unfocused eyes had already told him. Turning back to Ari and Gwaine he confirmed, "She's dead."_

 _Ari burst with fresh sobs and pushed Gwaine to stand alone. "Oh gods, how could you do this?"_

 _"_ _What choice did I have?" Gwaine replied. "She came at us with a knife." He kicked the bit of metal. "You knew her best; would she have let us live peacefully if I'd just knocked her out?"_

 _"_ _We could have taken her with us. That's what family does for each other."_

 _"_ _When we get to Camelot, I'll show you family. This woman wasn't family." He leveled a finger at her body. "She was poison."_

A thick branch caught in the saddlebags, and Gwaine leaned back to free it from Ari's pack. As he adjusted the weight and poked at the things within, something caught his attention. But Merlin interrupted his investigation. "What did you mean when you said, 'It only takes one drop'?"

"Huh?" Gwaine said as he pulled the pack into his lap with a huff. "Elaborate, mate. I don't have mind-reading skills, remember?"

"You said 'she was poison, and it only takes one drop.'"

Gwaine tossed his hair. "Aranna wouldn't have lived placidly in Caerleon or Camelot - she was a danger to us." He grinned ruefully, "It only takes a drop of evil to sour everything that could be."

Merlin deflated. "That just proves there are a lot of things that I can blame myself for."

Gwaine quirked a brow. "Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Right, well, about that," Gwaine frowned and focused on the silhouette of his sister thrashing ahead. Her angry pace was starting to wane; she must be getting tired. "I'm going to come clean. If the others think killing Aranna was too far, then I want to be properly judged for it."

"They'll forgive you for it, Gwaine," Merlin sighed, "I forgave Gaius for his actions during the Purge, and in my opinion, those actions were much worse."

"I think you're underestimating how difficult it is to forgive someone that has lied to you," Gwaine said warningly. It was loud enough for Ari to hear since the space between them had lessened, and it triggered her to finally face them.

"I'm not angry because you lied to me," she announced stroppily and stomped her way to Merlin's horse.

And because her presence kept Merlin from responding, Gwaine was treated only to the crease of hurt and acceptance between Merlin's brows. In gruff apology, Gwaine tossed Ari's pack between them and muttered, "Think you can mend the rip?"

Ari's hand shoved itself into the air near Merlin. "I accept your earlier offer of riding on your horse, if you don't mind."

Merlin looked between her stubborn brown eyes, and Gwaine's. "Don't you think you should ride with your brother?"

"He breaks all the ladies' hearts in Camelot," Gwaine piped up, "be careful, Ari."

"I do not!" Merlin groused, "That's _you_." Then he glanced down at the lumpy cloth balancing in his hands and saw the large tear running down one side. "But I may need the extra saddle space to deal with this."

Ari frowned but circled around to Gwaine's side while Merlin began to ruffle in the physician's satchel for a needle and twine. "I meant quickly _,"_ Gwaine interrupted, making Merlin glare at him. "Don't tell me you haven't done the same for Arthur's clothes."

He emphasized to stress the point, "I prefer to _mend_ alone."

"I know," Gwaine said as he hoisted Ari upwards. "And how long are you planning on doing all your _servant_ duties in secret?"

Merlin narrowed his eyes at empty space, slightly perturbed, and seemingly focused on threading the needle. "Not for much longer."

"Good," Ari said, now settled uncomfortably into place. "Because while I have no idea what nonsense the both of you are talking about," she gestured in the direction of Caerleon, "this is the kind of shite that happens when people keep secrets."

* * *

As Gwaine, Merlin, and Ari continued onwards to Idirsholas in the days leading to the Kalends of January, Arthur packed up his troops for the same journey. The process was a bit more manual than he would have liked, largely due to his missing manservant.

Arthur looked at the chickenscratch letter Merlin had left him and huffed for a countless time. It made sense for someone to go to Idirsholas early and ensure it wasn't a trap, and to be on the trail of the Caerleon warrior as soon as possible, but what purpose was there in sneaking off without even talking about it first?

And what was this at the bottom about Galatine being bigger and harder than Excalibur? That didn't make any sense.

"Sire?" He raised a brow at Leon. "We're waiting on you."

 _Right._ "We have everything?" He had to double-check since a certain manservant was not around to blame for things going wrong. Merlin might just be the most aggravating person in Albion.

"Maybe we should wait a few more minutes for the mystery knight to show up?" Elyan said, "He may still join us."

The knights glanced between each other, wondering if anyone else had run across any knight that had hinted at tagging along. Percival interrupted them, "Perhaps our man has gone on ahead."

Arthur took one last look around the pavilion. "I admit I'm disappointed in him," he frowned and spurred his horse forward. "If he's behind us, then it's up to him to catch up."

* * *

Elyan didn't catch that first clue, but he caught the second. It flew by a few days later, when they had camped for the night with the ruined Fortress of Idirsholas in the distance.

"Where are those two fools?" Arthur was saying as he was forced to rinse his bowl out with his own waterskin. "Shouldn't they have tried to find us by now?"

"They're probably nearer the fortress, with the warrior," Leon concluded rationally. He looked across the expanse, "I don't see any other fires."

"That makes sense," Elyan said, "if they're trying to remain hidden."

Arthur snorted. "Merlin forgets flint half the time. I swear, sometimes I've seen him try to light fires with random rocks just so he doesn't have to admit it." He threw a small stick into the fire and it spit as the water within it bubbled away. "But if there are no other fires, that must mean our mystery knight isn't here."

"At the very least, he isn't ahead of us," Leon reasoned. "He would have missed a patrol if he left any earlier than the night before us, which only gives him time to take the direct route we ourselves took. We would have seen trace of him."

"He could be behind us, following our trail," Elyan guessed, but he sounded doubtful.

Arthur soured, "I don't mind speaking on his behalf, but I wish he hadn't hid from me. It's cowardly."

"He's not a coward," Percival said quietly. "None of your knights are. He'll be there."

"Sure," Arthur replied, "but what does it say about our knights when it's more likely my _manservant_ will show up to a challenge?" He huffed as he stood and clapped a hand on Leon's shoulder. "Wake me for my watch."

Leon shook his head, a bit disheartened as well. He clicked his sword from its sheath and turned his back on the fire. "Get to bed," he addressed Elyan and Percival. "Long day tomorrow."

Percival silently moved for his bedroll, but Elyan snagged him by the elbow when they were a small distance away. Whispering, he said, "Who is it? You know who it is, I can tell."

"How?" Percival asked.

"There's no way for you to _know_ he's not a coward - that he'll be here. Who is it?"

The burly man shook his head slowly. "It's not my secret to tell."

"So you do know," Elyan said animatedly. "Just tell me; I'll find out in the morning anyways." Percival shook his head again and more stubbornly went down to sleep. "He must be someone in the barracks, right? You saw him leave?" Percival rolled over to hide his face.

"It's obvious when you think about it."

"Ugh," Elyan grumbled as he rolled into bed himself. _What am I missing?_

* * *

He finally got it after Percival's third slip. Cue the jokes that Gwen got all the brains, because, _bollocks_ , he was an idiot.

Elyan had the last watch that next morning, so as the sun started to brighten the forest, he put a small pot of water to boil. If they did end up fighting today it would be no good to do it on an empty stomach. After some dried oats it became the grueliest of porridge, especially with no spice or meat to liven the taste, and the concoction make Arthur joke, "I'd rather have went hungry."

This is usually where Merlin would make a comment about how Arthur's belt loops would appreciate that - but Merlin wasn't here, and Arthur could make Elyan run laps in full armor. "I could do some shifts guarding the kitchen to boost my skills?"

"Oh no, you're not getting out of winter patrol," Arthur smirked. "I had to suffer through that for years."

Well, it was worth a try.

The four men were on the road very soon after. They were a group that immediately packed things after use; it only made sense to be prepared for a quick getaway. And no one wanted to be the knight that tripped over their bedroll during a bandit attack.

The last stretch was across a wide plain, white with a thin layer of snow and early morning fog. It hid the four knights well, and quietly they made their way towards the dark shape of the fortress on the horizon. They had to be careful to come at the structure from the left, not because of a fear of nonexistent sentries, but because the right side of the fortress was defended by a shear cliff.

As they neared, however, they got a better view of the multi-tiered fortress, its many towers topped with heavily sloped pinnacles. The walls themselves were in ruin, and the ground nearby was a minefield of gravel and stones. It forced Arthur to pull up short.

"Anybody see a route that won't break our horses' legs?" Arthur asked. There wasn't a hitching post in the rubble, but the horses had long been trained to ground-tie, so, barring bandits or a scare, the horses would stay where the knights left them. "Me neither. Let's find a spot more well-hidden."

Leon pulled ahead, trotting round with his chestnut roadster to the far side of the fortress, already thinking ahead to quick escape routes. But a soft knicker cut the silence, and from the gloom came a riderless horse. They only recognized it as Merlin's when it eagerly fell into line behind Arthur.

"Well, we know they made it at least," Elyan said. Gwaine and Merlin had left their horses in a nook near a rubble-made entrance, and after Arthur confirmed the two horses weren't injured in battle, the four knights followed in their comrade's footsteps. Elyan leaned over to Percival and whispered, "Your guy isn't here."

A small smile played on Percival's face, but he said nothing, and that should have clued Elyan in. Instead, he spent the next half-hour navigating the rubble as they climbed up towards the keep, fully believing Percival had been mistaken.

The tall knight saw the Caerleon warrior first, muttering, "How does he get his horse _inside_ all these places?"

Elyan looked up to see the Caerleon man atop his horse in the midst of the main courtyard. His halberd was drawn and held high above his head in challenge, and Gwaine was only a little ways ahead of them, turning now to look at them in surprise. Gwaine was good, but he wasn't one-on-one-against-cavalry good. And he definitely wasn't turn-your-back-on-cavalry good.

Elyan's hand went to his sword and he started forward to defend him. Then Percival's weight nearly knocked him on his face.

"What?" His eyes went from Percival's restraining palm, to the amused knight's crinkled eyes. They were focused on Gwaine, and as Elyan swung his head back forward it hit him. "Oh." Then he frowned. "Seriously? You could have told me. It's just Gwaine!"

Percival chuckled. "Still think the mystery knight is a coward?"

"Yes," Elyan crossed his arms, "I also happen to think the mystery knight smells and cheats at dice."

Arthur and Leon, without Percival to stop them, had reached Gwaine's flank by then. Leon slid into a textbook defensive stance, and Arthur pushed ahead to wave Excalibur at the warrior. "Dismount!" He called. "I'm not going to shout at you to discuss terms."

"Arthur," Gwaine started. "Let me handle this."

"No," Arthur said plainly. "And I've got a bone with you too, actually. Who goes on a surveillance mission and then doesn't send back any information?"

"Surveillance?" Gwaine asked with confusion.

Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Merlin said—"

"Of course, 'Merlin said,'" Gwaine quoted, and shook his head. "Forget that. I wasn't asking you, I was telling you." He put an arm out and stepped in front of his king. His gaze swept forward and focused on the Caerleon warrior, resolve strengthening. "This is my fight. Don't interfere."

* * *

Rewind and you'd see a pretty similar scene playing out with a similar group of people. Gwaine was involved, and his tune wasn't very different.

"Stay with Merlin, Ari," he was saying sternly, "we didn't break you out of the Fortress of Servitude to get captured in Idirsholas."

"I'd feel better if you'd let us nearby, at least," Merlin argued back.

Gwaine shook his head, then wiggled his fingers in their symbol for magic. "No _mending_ , mate. I'll fix things up myself."

Ari huffed and stomped and basically threw a minor tantrum as Gwaine journeyed further into the ruins. When he had blended with the morning fog she pouted and crossed her arms. "You know what I hate?"

Merlin raised a brow but didn't bother talking. He was well aware of her mile-a-minute mouth.

"Big brothers. They think they know what's best for you, but they don't know anything about you!" She stubbed her toes at some snow, "I grew up fine without him, you know. But if he was always going to come back he should never have left me in the first place, how do you think that made me feel? Did he ever tell you that when he was twelve…" and thar she blew.

Merlin felt his attention drifting, and he didn't even feel that guilty about it. Perhaps he should have, considering she was recently orphaned, but in this world Ari was lucky to have family that cared about her freedom. She'd realize that in time.

As it was, his guilt was still very preoccupied with the problem of Morgana. Had the 'drop of poison' in her life been the hemlock as the knights of Medhir attacked, or the less tangible lie she'd read on his face that night she'd finally admitted to having magic? Had it been he accidentally leading troops to the Druids' camp, causing the peaceful people to die in front of her eyes, or the many other injustices of Uther?

He could count the mistakes on hands and feet, but did that really mean he was the one who had soured her fate? If he believed that, then he'd have to believe he alone shaped Arthur's, Gwen's, Gwaine's and everyone else's lives in ways out of their control, and really, that was preposterous. Not so long ago he'd shook Arthur's hand and realized peace in Albion rested equally on both of their shoulders.

The Once and Future King's destiny depended on Arthur, as Emrys' hinged on Merlin, and Morgana's her own. Besides, regardless of his actions, the Princess Morgana would very likely have always ended in the arms of Morgause.

"Are you coming or not?"

He shook himself to the present and very quickly realized Ari was not where he'd left her. "Wha?" he trailed as he spun on his heel, finding her crawling up a rickety platform for a vantage point along the wall. "Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" She called back down, then beckoned him after her. "I can't make the jump without you."

His eyes traced her route, seeing the wide hole in the walkway and then the opposite side that looked near to crumbling. "No way, are you crazy?"

"Runs in the family," she said flippantly.

As she got to her feet and began to judge the gap, he hurried after her with a groan. Did _everyone_ he knew have to be this headstrong? Though he couldn't fault her - this is exactly something he would have done had she not been around.

And that, there, gave him a dangerous idea that he toyed with all through their fragmented journey on the upper levels of the fortress.

Because, beneath the tyranny and paranoia of Queen Morgana, there may have been a worthwhile idea on how to implement magical freedom. She had grown up knowing statecraft, and she may have had a plan.

Spirits, was asking for it worth the treason?

"I hear voices," Ari whispered, and tugged at his sleeve to hide him from sight. She slid upwards until her wide eyes and the bridge of her nose rose above their low wall, and as Merlin stared past her to the keep and the sheer cliff beyond, she looked down on a group of red-cloaked men in the ruins. "Knights, I think."

Merlin looked too. "Oh, Arthur's here," he said pleasantly.

"He's more handsome than I remember," she answered. Arthur charged forward with Leon in tow, shouting at Beddler, and then at Gwaine. In the rear Percival lay a hand on Elyan as shock rippled through the knight, and Ari's eyes never left them.

"That's not Arthur," Merlin teased. "That's Percival." He pointed out Arthur in the crowd and corrected her.

"He's a bit short for a king, isn't he?"

"You're going to fit right in at Camelot."

Merlin grinned that endearing smile that pulled his eyes into half-moons, but Ari still felt skeptical. This was the 'family' Gwaine had waxed on about? The one that he'd left his blood-family for? They didn't seem so great.

Then Gwaine stepped fluidly in front of the king and her attention snapped to them. "This is my fight," he called with a maturity she was still getting used to. "Don't interfere."

* * *

"So the coward finally shows his face," Beddler sneered.

Gwaine glowered and sliced Galatine through the mist, dew drops gathering on the steel. "A bottom-feeding sewer fish like you isn't worth my attention."

"Spare me your attention," he snorted, "but your decapitated head will have no choice but to stare after my axe."

Gwaine shifted his stance one pace forward and replied with a toss of his hair, "Unfortunately, mate, carrying around my head won't make your face any prettier."

"But it may make me richer," he remarked. "Someone would finally put your mouth to good use."

Gwaine praised that comeback with a low whistle. It had shocked him just enough to make him pause, and he needed a moment to think. "Such a virtuous way to treat your enemies. Tell me, did you borrow your honor from a pig sty?"

Beddler countered with a twist upon his horse. "And what of your honor? Or is there none in a family of debtors and thieves?"

Gwaine glanced back at the others as if he were puzzling over something. "It's treason to call the King of Camelot a thief, right?" He rolled his head back forward and grinned darkly. "These are my brothers, I'd cut the blood out of body for them, and I'd know no greater honor. I think the 'family' you're referring to is Aranna - my mother in Caerleon."

"She owes me a debt," Beddler spit, "a great one."

Galatine went to Gwaine's throat and tugged out the dragon-scale necklace ending in his father's seal. "Then, how fortunate for you, that she's dead. Her entire manor is waiting for you to claim it." His hand twisted and the sword split the chord. The ring settled into place on the flat of the blade, and Gwaine quirked a brow as he extended the one claim to his family name towards Beddler. "The long lost heir, finally returning to claim his birthright."

The warrior was dubious. "Your sister still lives there."

"All dead," Gwaine said, "a bit of an annoying bloodline anyway." He jounced the seal into the air, noting that Beddler's helm definitely shifted to follow it. "Come and get it," he taunted. "A noble name, and only a few red stains to clean from the cobblestones."

Beddler hesitated, and his axe partially lowered. "Deal. For your manor, the debt is wiped."

"Pleasure doing business," Gwaine sneered.

The halberd shifted defensively, and with a nudge of his ankles Beddler prodded his horse forward. Gradually the two men approached battle distance, and then grew close enough for their blades to cross. Beddler's halberd blocked his body from attack, and Gwaine's extended sword could sweep fast enough to parry any thrust. Beddler's opposite hand released the reins and stretched for the ring.

And then he spoke, but just a hair too early. "I hear the heir has his father's sword."

A flash of movement - Gwaine tenses, Beddler dives - and his axe comes down so the curl of it locks against Galatine.

The seal is gone before Gwaine can react, but in anticipation of Beddler using the strength of his height to further advantage, Gwaine ducks. His grip loosens on his pommel so he can swivel beneath the blade. He curls to his feet beneath the horse and from this angle can slide his blade free, and it's only a half second more before he can plunge it into the animal's guts, but the axe comes careening down towards him and Gwaine has to dodge.

From the corner of his eye he sees the other knights readying to attack and he shouts, "It's my fight!"

He backpedals, and along the way to full height he palms a fist-sized chunk of rubble. He knows he's taking himself straight for the worst position possible - between a keep and a charging horse - but he's used to fighting with his back against the wall. It's a little like hustling - make everyone think you're weak, and then hit them hard.

The sun begins to burn away the fog, and in the dissipating wisps Beddler's axe raises in all out attack. Then forward he rides in streaking fabric and tangling hair. The streamer atop Beddler's helm whips in artificial wind, and the horse's eyes are large and black and focused on a spot to Gwaine's right.

And that tell is enough. For Gwaine, it's blatantly obvious exactly how Beddler plans to strike.

The warrior closes in, Gwaine only shields his left side and Beddler thinks he's won. When he's close enough for the final blow he tugs the reigns to the side, it turns the horse's head just slight enough, and Gwaine throws.

The chunk of ruin sails through the air and there is just a fraction of time for Beddler to realize the trick. _So what,_ Gwaine thinks, _if I fight dirty?_ He grins, and he swears he sees Beddler's body go slack with acceptance, then the rock slams into the horse's snout.

It veers sharp, Gwaine leaps, and it stumbles over its own legs. Both it and rider slam into the old stones of the keep, and then everyone goes silent.

They had heard a _whoosh_ of sound like dirt skidding away, and as Beddler groaned and rolled to his knees, a loud _pop_ resounded over them all. With the lull, they all heed to the sound of a large rock cracking in a series of successively faster snaps until they are graced with a _boom_ and echoing thuds as it tumbles down over the cliff.

* * *

It's a big one; one that merged the base of the keep with the cliff face itself, and Merlin and Ari watched it go with trepidation.

"That's preposterous," Merlin said in the beats of silence that followed, only to be shocked double as a second rock fell. This time it came forward into their clearing, scaring Beddler's horse so badly that it scrabbled to stand only to fall again.

"Impossible!" The warrior echoed, focusing his attention on his horse even as his halberd lay unused. At Gwaine he threw another insult. "You're a cheat."

Gwaine scoffed, "I'm not a _sorcerer_."

The animal began to calm so Beddler's focus swung for the top of the keep, and without the fog it spied Merlin blinking over one of the surrounding walls. He pointed, "Then what is he, then, but your ace hiding in the ruins?"

Merlin put a hand on Ari's head and shoved her lower on the wall. He'd rather not Ari, who was obviously much better at staying hidden, get pulled into this. If Beddler saw her alive he may not believe Aranna was dead too.

Gwaine blinked at him owlishly, "I've never seen that man before in my life."

Beddler glowered at Merlin, "Dare you throw a boulder at my horse?"

 _For once I've just been minding my own business_ , Merlin thought, then sighed. He had no gift of foresight, but he already knew there were a lot of jokes at his expense on the horizon. _Prat-tastic._

"Yes," he bellowed, "it was I!" Then, because he looked silly yelling that while kneeling, he stood to his feet.

Total silence. Then Elyan, with the catchable sort of terror: "Oh no, the evil sorcerer of Idirsholas!"

Arthur, mortified, swung his head back and groaned. Merlin appended that with a feeble "Rah!" and a fist shake.

"Stay back, sorcerer!" Percival yelled.

"You stay back!" Merlin yelled, channeling a bit of Dragoon the Great. "This is my castle, for me only!" An impish glee was shining in Gwaine's eyes, and Merlin had half a mind to go over there and smack him. "Leave, or I'll bring the keep down on your head!"

And of course, because all of Merlin's luck was bound together with his misfortune, the tower creaked ominously.

A few of the knights looked up warily, but from his vantage point he could see a subtle tilt in the castle that was anything but steady. "Now!" He yelled. "Leave, now!"

Gwaine sheathed his sword in one smooth motion. To Beddler he said, "Word from the wise, mate," he had to pause as Merlin urged them on with evil cackling, "you're no match for him."

A spill of stones pushed them all into a sprint, Arthur pausing only to smack Gwaine on the back of the head. Merlin kept up his maniacal laughter until Beddler had mounted his horse and vaulted down a separate path, then coughed and grasped blindly for Ari's shoulder. Turns out his throat wasn't made to be evil.

"Time to go?" She said fearfully, eyeing the keep. He nodded, and she darted forward, leading the way back to the horses with the tower rumbling behind them.

Mostly she kept in sight of her brother and the other knights down below, though she and Merlin steadily fell further behind. While she and Merlin were forced to pause and talk through the safest route with quick jabs of their fingers, the knights moved in tandem, seamlessly, as if they could read each other's minds. They knew each other that well.

In the final clearing, she caught relief in their faces when she and Merlin appeared. Though, that was overshadowed soon after with interest at her, and a mix of things at Merlin. Arthur's anger won out, because as soon as they were within arm's reach, the king had pinched Merlin's earlobe between two fingers and started reaming him out.

She had been worried until he ruffled Merlin's hair and gruffly said, "Idiot."

And then, as they had leapt onto the horses, she saw each of the knights subtly check on their companions. They did so out of care rather than self-preservation, and the love between them made tears burn into her eyes.

She pressed her face into Gwaine's back and listened to the thunder of stones crashing atop the fortress and cliffs below, echoed by the feeling of the horses' hooves pounding into the ground. She understood now.

Nearby, someone tightened a strap on Gwaine's saddle and then pounded him on the shoulder as both man laughed giddily. This was trust, and acceptance, and so many other things she'd forgotten to expect from people.

This, as her brother had said, was family.

* * *

 _Arthur,_

 _At no extra cost to your royal pratness, Gwaine and I are going to track down angry axe-guy. I know you're Mr. Courageous or Outrageous or something, but it wouldn't do for the king of Camelot to get caught in a trap. You get caught in your doublet half the time, and that's embarrassing enough._

 _And if you're fantasizing about brushing off the stocks, just remember that surveillance is boring and I'm probably cold. Nothing to be jealous over, except, well, I'm having much more fun with Galatine. It's much longer and harder than Excalibur._

 _Gossip later,  
Merlin_

After finishing his recitation, Arthur rolled up the paper and started an aggressive drumbeat on Merlin's head.

"You have to admit that Merlin is a good liar, sire. He tricked you."

"I am well aware that when Merlin is lying to me, ninety percent of what comes out of his mouth is complete nonsense."

"I prefer to call it distraction."

"I prefer to call it a side effect of a shrunken brain." Arthur stopped his tapping and stuffed the paper into a pocket. "Not catching you at it was a minor lapse in judgement. Don't get cocky. It won't happen again."

A clatter of mugs landed before them, amber liquid sloshing out onto the Rising Sun's well worn wooden table. This night, days after the events in Idirsholas, marked Gwaine's first punishment.

Unanimous decision dictated that, for the first of four separate disciplinary actions, Gwaine would have to pay for all the ale.

Despite this, though, he had a shit-eating grin on his face. "I'm not so sure about that, Arthur. Beddler was very convinced Merlin was a sorcerer."

"Must be blind," Arthur snorted. "Even I can act more convincingly magical."

Merlin scoffed, "Let's see it, then."

Arthur stood immediately, sipping at his beer and eyeing the other patrons of the tavern. A smarmy smile took him in increments, but by the end of it he had folded back into his chair and leaned into Merlin's face. "Oh I'll show you, but you won't know when I'm showing you. The act will be so good, you won't even know it's me."

"You can't just wait for the next sorcerer attack," Elyan said, "and pretend that was you."

"Before winter's out, then," Arthur agreed. "Nothing ever happens in winter."

"I wait with bated breath," Merlin grinned.

Arthur leaned back, looking pleased with himself. "You've a lot to look forward to. The Reeve has Ari on the kitchen staff now, on my lengthy recommendation. It's only a matter of time before she douses you in dinner again."

Leon cocked his head. "I thought Gwen would take her as a handmaiden, or a lady-in-waiting?"

"Gwen said she'd have to earn it," Gwaine replied, "and I agree with her."

"Plus," Percival drily cut in, "no lady-in-waiting could have Gwaine as a brother. Too much scandal."

Gwaine laughed, "That reputation I worked hard to earn."

"Am I to understand," Leon said, "that you've planned for your _current_ noble house to be represented by," he paused, raised a brow, "notches on a bedpost?"

"I see why you're the Captain of the Guard," Gwaine replied, "you're a genius."

Elyan grinned, "I'll have it etched on a competition quality shield by next week."

"Please," Arthur groaned, "just make it subtle."

"Not all of us can have golden dragons."

"Your old house had nothing to do with dragons?" Merlin questioned, thinking of the dragonscale that adorned Gwaine's former necklace.

"It had to do with a dragon," Gwaine amended. He sent a silent apology Merlin's way, knowing that Merlin had confessed his worry over their extinction. He couldn't change what his ancestors had done, though. "A dead, green dragon."

The knights commented, phrases like, 'well, it better be dead' or 'guess you have no chance of living up to that', but Gwaine and Merlin's gazes had locked.

"I hate the idea of having a name I didn't earn, anyways. I'm glad to be rid of it."

Merlin smiled benignly, "I'd say you've earned a better one here in Camelot, notches and all."

Gwaine agreed, proud of almost every moment he'd spent as a knight of Camelot. "Beddler can take the title of Green Knight. We don't need names like that here."

He looked round at the other knights, proud to have known them as well, but his gaze ended again on Merlin. Because, as much as this was a scene in a tavern like many other, Merlin's bearing hinted that this blind status quo would not last.

As Merlin had insinuated in the forest - change was coming.

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Ari is Gwaine's younger sister, (The Betas, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight).  
(2) Galatine is Gwaine's sword from legend, and I officially named it awhile back (Mouthful of Soap).  
(3) The abandoned Fortress of Idirsholas is a real location from canon - featured in the episode Fires of Idirsholas with the Knights of Medhir and the infamous hemlock poisoning.  
(4) Again, Beddler is a name I edited from Bredbeddle - one of the fake names the Green Knight gives in poems.

 **Author's Note:**

Tis been a while. On the bright side, the time of year in the story now matches closely to real life.

Thanks to my beta Linorien for helping me brainstorm this chapter awhile back when I was really clueless, brainstorming is the best, and here is my official congratulations on _completing_ the challenge of NaNoWriMo! Thanks also to my lovely ladies Jewelsmg and dmarie1184 for being great friends across vast spaces. I appreciate all three of these ladies for letting silly me into their lives. And to all of you reviewers, I love every message I get. I reread those reviews and they are like jolts of inspiration.

The last line about change - the group of finale chapters is coming not next chapter, but the chapters after. Next chapter I'm having a winter montage to get us through the end of February story-wise. It's going to be magic heavy because I miss Merlin and magic. It's also going to include recommendations / requests, and, because I lost a race, I have to include a particular strange word. If there's anything else you guys would like to sneak in before the finale, tell me :)

 **Next time:** Rocky's Steps. Merlin dives into a minor form of magic, and it takes him to the dragons, the druids, and a dark witch.


	15. Rocky's Steps

**—** PSA: Some symbols will not show up on mobile.

* * *

 **Rocky's Steps  
** _January - February_

When Merlin was six, he'd hated baths.

This was because he would be made to endure one or more of the following: a dunking into the frigid waters of the stream, his mother's a-little-too-much-lye soap, or a scolding. And despite the painful outcomes of the former activities, it was always the scolding that left him smarting for days.

So, when at six years old he walked into his mother's cottage covered in dirt from hill racing with Will, he weighed the pros and cons of spending this night, and maybe even subsequent nights, in the fields. She spied him before he could decide to subsist on bugs, alas.

" _Merlin_ ," she said slowly, "come here, little one."

One tentative step forward - he always made this mistake, maybe he was too trusting? - and she snagged his earlobe between two fingers and hauled him towards his corner.

"Strip," she bade, and then shook her head mournfully at his mud-encrusted dayshirt and trousers as he changed into his evening sackcloth. He was young enough for the sack to hang over his knees, though unfortunately it wasn't long enough to hide the streaks of grime running up his shins. "We'll have to be at the river by dawn," she sighed, then lay his clothes aside.

This was when he knew to gulp, because she'd always turn to him with murder in her eyes. It was like she blamed him for six years without sleep, sometimes. Which was so unfair, because it was her own fault for wanting him squeaky clean.

"Outside."

He loped off quietly, and she grabbed their bucket of fresh well-water and a clay bowl. Tucked in her armpit was the ever-dreaded lye soap, and he tried not to look at its sickly yellow as the bucket landed near his feet.

He bent before she could order him, and she began to run the water through his hair and across the back of his neck. It would always stream down over his high cheekbones and catch in his eyelashes, which made the addition of the stinging soap even worse.

He so badly didn't want the sunburned feel in rivers along his face that he didn't realise what he was doing. But his mother, she noticed. She sucked in a breath and quickly hauled him indoors.

"Merlin," she said with concern, and then hugged him tight to her side, "do you hate being clean so much, you little piglet?"

"I just hate the soap in my eyes," he answered with a squished voice.

"Next time I'll give you a rag to hold," she said, then tugged a red dishcloth and started scrubbing at his dripping hair. "You can't do that outside, little one."

"Did I use magic?" Merlin asked faintly, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

She bent down and put both hands on his shoulders, the damp cloth hanging along one side of his body and making him twitch. "You don't need to apologize for your magic, Merlin."

"I just have to keep it a secret, I know. It's a secret for you and me and home."

"Good boy," she pressed a firm kiss to his temple and then plopped them both on the table, her arms around him as he settled into her lap. Fluidly, in the way adults were so efficient with their movements, she had simultaneously scooped a fresh bowl of water and placed it before them. "Keeping dangerous secrets is never fun, little one, or easy. It was very difficult for your father too."

With _his whole body_ he listened, because it was so rare to ever hear mention of his father.

"He had so many secrets," she said wistfully. Then she dipped her finger into the bowl and drew a letter, a bit like "F" onto the wood grain. "This is one of them. It's called a rune."

He traced it with his own little fingers. It was an easy shape to make, just three strokes and it felt perfect, in a way. Perfect like normal letters didn't.

𐌅

"Father's secret symbol?"

She nodded. "All three of us get to keep it a secret together."

He traced it again.

"Are there more?

* * *

 _Yes_ , Merlin remembered, _there are many more._

He had woken from the dream wide-awake, as if he'd been conscious for hours. It took a few seconds of staring at the ceiling to realize what he was feeling was adrenaline.

Runes were no special thing, he'd seen plenty of spells written in their script, but he hadn't looked at them recently. Not since he'd known this new way to _see_ magic. It must have been the shock of discovery that jolted him to wakefulness, and now that the strange clue was carved into his eyelids, there was little hope of another nap before morning.

The rune - the rune _itself_ \- had magic.

He swiveled, plopping his feet into his boots. Then he shuffled from the room with his blanket still wrapped around his shoulders for warmth, and it was this hunchbacked figure that Gaius woke to.

"Merlin," the physician said, "are you ill?"

Perhaps he was. Magic was burning through his thoughts. "Do you still have that book of runes? The translational one?"

"Of course," Gaius said, slowly moving to pull the tome from a shelf. While runes did have a history linked with magic, there were still many old texts and tablets written in their form, and so the letters themselves had never been deemed worthy of purging. "What is this about?"

But Merlin didn't hear him. He was instead staring at the book with intense concentration, flipping through the pages almost manically. "Before the Purge, how were runes used with magic?"

Confused, Gaius answered with the obvious choice. "Mostly written spells. You know this, my boy. The spellbook in your chambers has a few."

"Nothing else? Have you ever seen the letters used on their own, not in words?"

Gaius shook his head, "They're always used in words, Merlin." But because the younger man was so intently looking for answers, Gaius went into detail, though confusion still colored his words. "Runes are beginner's magic. Early on, when I'd take students from theory into mage magic, I'd use short runic words to guide them."

This made Merlin pause and watch him, so he gestured with his fingers. "Just a few letters to give them something recognizable to bind their magic to. The runes would glow if the student performed the spell correctly."

"Did the objects ever react differently than you expected - when the runes were written on them?"

There were so many things to factor in; that was an impossible question to answer. "Not that I recall. Merlin," he stood and peered at the book. Merlin had flipped about to the halfway mark, and it was open to the letter 𐌡 , called _Ura_. It was used in a handful of spells, but nothing obviously related as far as he could tell. "Are you hinting that the runes are special in some way?"

Merlin nodded eagerly. "There is inherent magic in the symbols themselves." He tapped at the ancient "U" and again Gaius watched Merlin gaze at seemingly empty space. "I don't think they're anything on their own… it's like they're unfinished."

 _Yes…_ Gaius thought, _they are unfinished. They are unfinished words._ Then he felt a bit guilty, because that was a tad too sarcastic. "What," he started, feeling unsettled as he watched Merlin's eyes blend into gold in the slowest of turns, "else could they be pieces of?"

"I don't know," Merlin said, attention glued again to the old book's pages, "but I'm going to find out."

* * *

𐌙  
 _Phonetically: /z/ or /x/  
Name: Elhaz or Algiz.  
No word begins with this rune. It is always used terminally._

 _For Merlin, each stroke of the letter was a bright gold. But if he let it sit, and he waited patiently, the flat shape bent three dimensional and at the end of each fork grew a spiral._

* * *

"Your majesty!"

Arthur meant to get straight to the point, but the multitude of products sold here intrigued him. Catching his attention were jars in a thousand sizes lining the walls from floor to ceiling; it was like someone had taken a corner of Gaius' chambers and bred it with a horny rabbit.

"You are definitely the man for the job," Arthur concluded, "but what I ask of you must remain a secret. It is a matter of utmost security."

"Yes, sire," the man said, pushing aside his new bottle of something. With focused attention he cleaned the rest of his counter of any spare detritus and then lay his wizened hands atop. "How may an old apothecary help the crown?"

"Is there anything that when thrown will cause smoke? Or perhaps sound? Anything startling." He snapped his fingers. "Maybe a flash of light? A flash of light would be great if you can make it very bright."

The old man looked perplexed. "Perhaps black powder? A mix of sulfur, charcoal and saltpeter will cause explosions."

Arthur leaned forward, interested. "Can you demonstrate?"

"It's quite loud, sire," the old man showed off his gums with a wide smile, "but I have already lost much of my hearing."

He turned round and gathered a small sheet of thick paper. He spooned no more than a gram of each ingredient into its separate corners, and in a ritual that made Arthur raise a brow, the old man shuffled his feet and tapped various pieces of metal. Apparently satisfied, he shifted the powders closer together until meshed, then swiftly wrapped the paper and twisted the top to leave a long wick.

This he lit with a flame fetched from a thin piece of shaved wood, "Stand back, sire."

It turned the paper edges red then black in quickly formed ash, and then with a boom that made Arthur jump, the parcel exploded. It blew leftover powder across the counter and paper bits floated in the air before his nose. "That was surprisingly excessive."

"Perhaps aluminum dust instead," the elder man mused, half a mind cleaning his workspace while the other half thumbed through a catalogue of memories. "More of a flash powder, but depending on how much I mix in…."

"Is there anything that doesn't require a flame?" He bent over to conspire, "I need it to be subtle."

"Technically," the apothecary warned, "they only require a spark. A rapid motion, an impulsive force, either concoction would cause the explosion."

"Hmm," Arthur wavered, "and do you have a version with less residue?"

* * *

The lunch hour over, Arthur left with his prizes and very specific instructions lest he burn himself. As a result, his various pockets were filled with packages of foreign substances, and so he had no place to even partially hide his second purchase - a bolt of thick navy cloth.

This wasn't a problem until he tried to take a sneaky route to the seamstress and ran into Merlin along the way. His manservant slammed a hand down on a decorative suit of armor, it rattled warningly, and Arthur swept the cloth behind his back. "Merlin," he said sharply.

"Arthur," Merlin said almost simultaneously. Then, "back from your secret lunch so soon?"

"I gave you some time off, shouldn't you be more grateful?"

"Very grateful to be here, taking my break." Merlin looked around. "This is a nice hallway isn't it?" He gestured at the ceiling. "Good archwork."

"Very nice," Arthur echoed. "I can see why you enjoy it." He began to inch away. "Well, I hate to keep you from… this."

Arthur walked backwards for a few more paces, and Merlin lounged against the armor to explain away his palm pressed to the metal. He whistled tunelessly, aiming his eyes at the ceiling, and tried to look very impressed. _I can't tell if I'm getting luckier or lazier._

When the well-adorned hallway emptied of royal admirers, Merlin peeled back his hand to see that the rune's magic had changed slightly, as it usually did. The 𐌔 had gouged an invisible crack in the steel, and from that crack shot a single line of magic. It looked delicate and alone and strange when attached to nothing else.

Disappointing, because even with all the places he'd tried, the rune still failed to react differently. Or… he paused, looked closer… maybe he had spoken too soon. Was he crazy, or was the magical strand moving on its own, twirling in invisible wind?

Yes, it was definitely doing… something. Dancing... twisting... searching?

Had the steel caused it, or had he added something subconsciously while talking with Arthur?

His palm had been right up against it. Curious now, he extended his hand forward, and the magic tilted towards him like a young shoot searching for the sun. When close enough to touch, it curled around his finger.

His eyes widened in shock. This meant… !

Or it could mean… !

...Blast. He had no earthly idea.

* * *

Which, as usual, meant it was time to cheat.

Luckily, though, this wasn't a deadly situation where the fate of Camelot hung in the balance and he risked trial-by-pyre to grab hold of one cryptic answer. He got to take his time, complete his most important chores, make sure he had a good night's sleep under his belt and then wait for the one night when the winds had died down. He didn't even have to sneak suspiciously out of the front gates; he just made the extra effort to transform into Dragoon, then teleported to the infamous clearing.

Kilgharrah, on the winds of a dragonlord's call, arrived not long later.

At this time of year, snow covered the forest ground with a hard-packed layer of ice and dirt. It had lain long enough to kill any hope for green, and that cold welcome bled right into KIlgharrah's narrowed eyes. "Merlin," the great dragon said stiffly, not having forgotten their latest argument, "why have you summoned me?"

Merlin filtered back into his usual youthful face. "I'm curious about runes. They're magical, but I don't know precisely how to use them."

Kilgharrah's golden scales rippled as his eyebrow arched.

"Here," Merlin cut in, "I'll need to show you to explain."

𐌣

He drew the lines straight in the snow, and he watched the symbol's natural magic create a fan of chaotic brambles at the rear, with a glowing sphere of conjoined magic at the point. Knowing Kilgharrah innately understood the shape of magic, he gestured at this structure. "What kind of spell is this? What does it do?"

"It is a manmade symbol, young warlock," Kilgharrah rasped, "and, like man, it is limited but capable of a great many things."

"Like what?"

An irritated growl, "Order from disorder. Merlin," he wiped the symbol away with a sweep of his tail. "Runes are only imitations of man's desires. They are manifestations of man's ego projected into the magical world around him. You are capable of much greater magic."

"But understanding them could come in useful. I'd rather have the knowledge to interpret them, rather than ignorance, if something dangerous turned up on my doorstep."

"Knowledge, young warlock, is very different from wisdom."

Inwardly, Merlin groaned. It appeared Kilgharrah was having one of his enigmatic days. That, or the great lizard was feeling particularly stubborn. Perhaps he should grease the wheels? "You're looking thinner. Has the winter been harsh?"

"I am not afraid of snow," Kilgharrah quipped. "But I fear for Aithusa. She is young, and you've set her wandering through a magic-fearing countryside."

He winced. Yes, it was wrong of him to rely on Aithusa to lead the displaced Druids to Iseldir's camp, but she was more capable than Kilgharrah gave her credit for. In a safer world she could have had a more wholesome youth learning at the great dragon's side, but this was not that world. "The Druids tell me she's healing well."

"I wouldn't know," Kilgharrah bit, "I hardly see her. She comes occasionally because of your command, but not often enough." Merlin opened his mouth to promise an amendment, but Kilgharrah cut him off. "I'm getting old, Merlin."

"Old?" Merlin echoed as he fumbled through the idea that Kilgharrah was not as strong as he had always seemed. "What do you mean? Maybe I can help."

"Reversing the flow of time is one thing you cannot do," the dragon sighed. "And the dragon's history and wisdom dies with me unless I have more time with Aithusa. My dragonlord, I would have been honoured to fly by your side the rest of your years, but I do not have that strength. We must prioritize."

Merlin mournfully pressed a hand against Kilgharrah's hide. "How much longer?"

The dragon snorted. "That depends on how much stress you pile upon me, young warlock." He bent to press his snout against Merlin's temple, then seemed to turn away in embarrassment at the show of affection. "The destiny of a great kingdom nears its reckoning. Soon, you must leave behind the shadows and step into the light."

"I know," Merlin said, and Kilgharrah stretched his wings to fly.

"And as for your runes," a bit of old derision crept back into his voice, "what makes you think innate spellwork is unique to them alone?"

* * *

𐌏  
 _Phonetically: œ  
Name: Odal  
Debated, but possible etymological connection to an ablaut version of the Old English 'Adel', for nobility. _

_In all cases, it grew a rigid lattice dome._

* * *

Kilgharrah had told him to open his eyes, and after his initial confusion and wariness, he skipped right into the shaky withdrawals of an alehouse addict, ever eager for a new discovery.

With his boot he toed a rough circle into the dirt of Middle Camelot, half because its shape was easily looked over as the bored doodling of a vapid manservant, and half because he was clammy with the need to watch its magic spiderweb into being. He wasn't hidden enough to lose himself exploring the landscape through the tear in his veil, but, spirits, was he itching to.

The longer Arthur kept him waiting in Dragonsbane Square, and the lower the sun set, the closer he came to lacing his magic into those pennants spanning between buildings. Or if he were to buoy the natural magic swirling in the water of the well, would its deepness devise a crystalline pattern different from the shallow buckets he'd conjured in his room?

 _Sard it_ , he thought. _What's life without risk?_

Gold seeped into his vision but a very bright, and very familiar, pattern of magic diverted his recreation. It lurked in the shadows of a nearby alley, and with a hunter's stalk it approached. As Merlin's sight returned to normal, it became a pale hand draped in dark fabric, then a heavy cowl hiding a shadowed face full of wicked intent.

"What do I have here?" The figure cackled.

Merlin cocked his head, "I was wondering the same."

The dark-cloaked figure crouched into a fighting curl, then in a burst of motion sprung forward, hand outstretched, a garbled magic word on his lips and a bright flash of light crackling near his feet. "That should answer your questions."

Merlin blinked. "Did you just call me a frog in Old English?"

"Idiot, who's the expert here, you or me?"

 _Indeed_ , Merlin thought. He propped his hands on his hips, utterly unafraid. "And what are your plans here, oh evil sorcerer? Come to capture me as bait against the king? He's a bit of a ass, you know. In fact, I asseverate that he wouldn't even notice me missing."

"I'm sure the noble king of Camelot has important things to do," the other man said with a flourish of his cloak. "No, I'm here for something much more sinister."

"Well, usually the evil folk wax on about their plans, so…" Merlin rolled his hand in the universal gesture for _go on_. As he did so he ducked his head, magic enhancing his vision just enough to see the palming of another small packet of fake sorcery. He hid a grin.

"Why would I tell a random servant my plans?" A snort ruffled the heavy fabric. "In fact, you seem better fit for Court Fool. I'd like to see you dance."

And as his arm wound back to throw, Merlin chose to be contrary. He shut his eyes and enhanced the natural magic within the little packet, and when he knew his secret was safe, opened them again to see a riotous amalgamate of _Leoht_ and _Forbaerne_ arcing towards him.

He shuffled back, and, _Leave it to Arthur to always hit the bullseye,_ watched the packet sail perfectly into the runic circle he'd drawn before. There, what he had initially planned to be a flashbang loud enough to surprise, instead instantaneously multiplied in a network of golden mesh that then exploded outward in a flash of light and heat so bright that it sent both men tumbling away.

From flat on his back, the 'evil' sorcerer said, "Merlin, are you hurt?"

Merlin squeezed the spots from his eyes. "No, I've just been blinded."

He listened to the scrape of Arthur's boots and hands on stone until the man was assuredly sitting up and staring at him. The pause must mean Arthur was checking him for injuries. "Well, let that be a lesson to you. If I had been a real sorcerer, you would be dead."

Not caring for how suspicious this sounded, "If you had been a real sorcerer, I would have killed you." Arthur blinked, Merlin blinked, and _Er, yeah, that may have been too bold._ He sat up. "I also would have laughed at you. But since you're the king, I decided to be polite."

"You're many things," Arthur started as he hauled Merlin to his feet, "but polite is not one of them."

Merlin, of course, insulted his bearing as a Prince and King of Camelot, and Arthur threatened him with all manner of corporal punishment which Merlin had no idea how close he was to actually earning. Together they disposed of the remaining flash-powder contraptions, and Arthur very generously donated the evil cloak to the Starving Servants fund.

At the time, Arthur had only been thinking that his strength was truly praise-worthy; if a firm throw had turned the powder from a party trick into a staggering blast, then it was a good thing he _wasn't_ a sorcerer. He'd likely send Morgana running for the hills!

Even more embarrassingly, he'd woken up later that night to the echo of a similar loud pop coming from the Physician's Chambers, and he never put two and two together.

In the months to come, this was just another of those memories that made Arthur want to beat his head against a wall.

* * *

𐌏  
 _Phonetically: œ  
Name: Odal_

 _The dome is a magnifier. An incubator._

 _Take any spell and let it nestle into the rune, and organically it links and grows to fill the sphere. It becomes the brightest lights, or the densest stones. For broken bones it becomes a splint, if mixed with a dollop of healing and hidden underneath the wind of bandages._

 _It is an additive. It is a human trait layered upon an existing spell, and, in all cases it lends one of our more popular wishes - Strength._

* * *

Kilgharrah was right to call it an abstraction of magic, but he was wrong to imply it would never be useful to him. If the other twenty-three runic shapes were as beneficial as the circle had been, then he had an arsenal of spells that could draw from ambient magic without any effort on the caster's part.

That value, and his escalating need to speak with Aithusa, sent him to Iseldir's camp an hour before he was set to deliver Arthur's breakfast. The camp had grown since he'd last had the chance to see it - the long community tents were fortified with low walls of wood, a stone well had been dug appropriately close to the central firepit, and a wooden bulletin board stood hopeful on the camp's edge. It was tacked with roughly drawn faces and character descriptions from Druids looking for news of missing family members.

He scanned for those he might recognize from the battle in Essetir, but Aithusa's unique chirping as she stretched and woke put him back on his original mission. She plodded up to him and wrapped her tail around the board's pole, cocking her head at him in question.

 _"_ _How are your injuries?"_ He asked in dragontongue.

She grinned and flipped round to show him the full length of her two rear legs. She was nearly whole and healthy; only an odd tilt in one of her knees belied any previous damage. Perhaps only a month more, and there would be no mark from her time in the Sarrum's pit.

 _"_ _Kilgharrah wishes to speak with you more. He has knowledge no one else alive can give you."_

She snorted, but bobbed her head in agreement. Then she tugged at his pant leg and, when he got the point to follow after her, she bolted away. With a little sigh, Merlin tracked after her white tail swaying playfully in the air. She was snuffling around the tents and smaller campfires, and Merlin started looking for the dawning sun. He probably didn't have much time left.

Finally her entire body went rigid, her eyes boring forwards with singular focus. A thin rat had earned that attention, and obliviously it nibbled on a leftover crumb while Aithusa coiled. When she sprung, the movement was barely comprehensible. He saw the flash of her teeth and the blur of her limbs, and then suddenly she was beaming at him with a wriggling rat in her mouth.

 _Ew._ She shoved her head forward, as if it were a gift, and he squirmed when he felt the critter's long tail whip in panic against his hip. _"Very nice, Aithusa."_

Pleased, she released a puff of fire and fed herself a breakfast of roasted rat.

More to himself, he muttered, "I'm glad you're happy here, at least."

Aithusa's head swiveled, and she half leapt, half flew towards a small cat which proceeded to let out an unholy screech and jump nearly ten feet into the air. As Aithusa settled back onto the ground, chirping curiously, Iseldir spoke directly into his mind. " _Emrys?"_

The cat hissed and dug its claws into the tree branch it had locked itself onto, and Merlin looked round. He saw Iseldir emerging from the community tents with his eyebrows nearly in the stratosphere.

"Sorry to wake you."

"You're always welcome here, Emrys." Iseldir tilted his head towards the center of camp. "Can I steal you away?"

"Thanks, but I can't stay long. Actually," he watched Aithusa flap into the air, one of her paws reaching to bat at her new plaything. "I should thank you again for taking such good care of her. She's further along than I expected."

"She's a constant surprise that way," Iseldir agreed.

That didn't make a lot of sense. "What do you mean? You said your healers had helped her."

"They have," Iseldir shook his head, "but magic is strange with her. Sometimes our healing spell will have the strength of three men."

Merlin perked. This sounded almost _exactly_ like the strength rune he'd just discovered! Perhaps the Druids had stumbled upon it themselves too. "Does anyone have a circle drawn on them? Something like this?"

𐌏

He traced the now familiar shape into the snow, and Iseldir frowned. "No," he replied. "Why?"

"Nevermind," Merlin sighed. "It sounded like runic magic."

Iseldir echoed the words, and his confusion clearly told Merlin he would not be finding further answers here. "Emrys," Iseldir said ruefully, "you too are a constant surprise."

The Druid Elder's focus flicked down to the circle drawn in the snow, and his eyes narrowed as he struggled to recall a memory. "Bleise mentioned a small scar at the base of the dragon's tail. He had worried it was a branding."

Iseldir drew the incomplete triangle, "But if we think of it as a rune instead, perhaps it is _Ura_?"

𐌡

Merlin's eyes flared gold, and he inspected the tiny sphere of golden magic hovering near Aithusa. It was definitely nothing alike the magic he associated with _Ura_. But maybe... He placed a dot in the center of Iseldir's shape.

𐌞

The natural magic of _Ura_ warped into a small funnel, above which swirled a spot of magic so infinitesimal he'd previously thought it trivial. Perhaps given enough time, the speck became a glowing globe.

"So she definitely didn't gain the mark from any Druid?"

"Certainly not," Iseldir assured. "It wasn't you, then?"

"No," Merlin said. "It wasn't me."

* * *

And truly, there was no other who would have done it, but Morgana.

Weeks from their last encounter had produced a change in his greatest enemy. No longer was she pitiful; now she had built her own evening fire ringed with heavy stones, and she was sitting hunched over it with no semblance of frailty. The warm glow gave a sheen of health that bled away into her mess of wild curls and the torn lace of her dress, but a lack of purpose still drew her entire body downward, dulling her motions until she were almost as still as the dormant trees that imprisoned her.

He left large footprints in virgin snow, and he ignored her suspicious stare all the slow trek into the circle of firelight. Then Merlin, as the Dolma, took a seat opposite her.

"You again," she bit without heat.

"Surprise."

"And here I thought you were only an apparition bookending a terrible nightmare."

Merlin shrugged, a gesture hardly noticeable under the Dolma's transfigured black dress and new navy cloak. The barb didn't bother him.

"What do you want this time?"

"I came to talk," Merlin said. "It gets boring being the witch of a lake no one cares to visit."

"I'm not much of a conversationalist."

"I'm not here to discuss the cuteness of daisies." Merlin looked round. "Do you have any cups?"

"I'm not a heathen either," she growled. "Of course I've made cups."

He rolled his eyes. "As if cups are what tips the scale."

She glowered, the flickering fire catching in her irises. The glow cut her silhouette against a backdrop of black, and she was all he could see as her eyes burned gold and she crooked a finger.

Two clay mugs hurtled to Merlin's feet, and she raised a brow mockingly as he bent to pick them up. "Now our tea is going to taste like dirt; I hope you're happy."

Merlin whispered _brimstréam_ and had the conjured spout fill both cups before setting them to boil near the fire. Morgana couldn't help but comment. "Unless you've perfected a spell for flavoured water, that concoction in my mugs is not tea."

"It's got half the ingredients of tea."

"It's got half the ingredients of soup. Are you going to make me a soup course subsequently? Or shall I just pretend I've got both with the taste of none?" She leaned forward. "If you knew me, you'd know I'm never happy with halves."

"Well, I presumed you were bitter enough to spice our tea all on your own."

A beat, and Morgana's cheeks tightened with a well-suppressed smile. Almost in concession, she walked round the fire and fetched the two mugs herself, offering one to the Dolma and sipping daintily at her own. "If only I were." Wistfully she added, "If I could do it on my own, then we wouldn't be drinking sludge, but dining in the great halls of Camelot. No one with magic would sleep with one eye open, or have one pre-packed bag. No more half-lives." She stood proudly, the hollow woman from before held at bay. "Do you know what freedom feels like, Dolma?"

Merlin blinked. He wanted to say yes, but… "No."

"I do." She sipped her tea. "I had a taste of it. It was fleeting, and it was ambrosia." She drained the rest of the mug and tossed it back into the snow. "But here you sit, happy with this to wet your palette."

* * *

Morgana may not have any plans to escape this clearing, may not have any means to control a kingdom, but it feels _good_ to remind someone else what every magic-user should be fighting for.

 _Freedom_.

She has mistakenly sought it through power and a throne and a crown, but now she knows how simple her desires are.

Her words have made the Dolma pensive, and so while Morgana strides back to her former perch, she makes herself a promise. If she ever escapes from here, she will not lose her way with specific material pursuits - she will search only for that elusive ambrosia.

The Dolma speaks. "You mentioned I think in halves, but perhaps I think in compromises. Working together with the Round Table and the King's Council would allow for a more peaceful embrace of magic."

 _Hah!_ Morgana scoffs, "The Council would deliberate until you were dead. Trust me, at the very least they require some coercion."

The Dolma's head tilts to the side, and she drawls slowly. "I expected you to suggest killing them."

There may have been a pyre or two to prove a point, but letting the Council run the smaller affairs was a necessary evil. Besides, the people love the familiarity of old government. "Lord Savile, in particular, has a niece that he dotes on."

"Convince their social circle," the Dolma mulls over the thought, "let the people they care about plant the seeds." Her hand goes to her throat, as if to fiddle with something that is no longer there, and then she murmurs, "That could work."

Well, her ideas had been more along the line of blackmail, but those were semantics. More importantly, how did the Dolma know these people? "Are you a seer?"

The Dolma stiffens, "No."

"Some extrapolation would be nice. If you've only come to take my thoughts and provide nothing but lukewarm water, you can leave." Her eyes brighten. "Or we can play a game. It's one of my favorites. You close your eyes, I poison one of the cups, and then you decide whether to switch them or not."

The Dolma's face is perfectly blank, and Morgana explains, "Life is clearer when we're closer to death."

"You're mad." The Dolma's eyes are hooded, and Morgana finds that very strange. Is that… guilt?

"Surprised?"

As she mocks the elder witch, the Dolma clears a flat patch of dirt and sets her mug down. "Disappointed, more like." She draws a circle around the cup, "Now watch. This is the contribution to this conversation you wanted."

Magic flares, and as the clay cup morphs into ceramic before her eyes, Morgana can't hide the jolt that goes through her. _How simple, how obvious._ She'd wondered what the others could do.

She'd stumbled onto one rune's power completely on accident. Her hand, splayed across her sister's face and coated in her sister's blood, forming the unplanned V on her cheekbone. Morgause's eyelids fluttering.

 _Help me Morgana._

 _I can't._ She'd teleported to safety. _I've already used all my strength._ She had nothing left.

 _Please, sister._

How unfair, to lose her to a stone when they'd faced tyrants. _I can't_.

Then, magic somehow at her fingertips where there had been none before. Not her own magic, something foreign, and cold, but with it Morgause had lived.

Morgana looks up, eyes dragging from the rune to the Dolma, who isn't even bothering to pretend she hasn't been watching her this whole time.

Morgana swallows, "Do you know the others?"

* * *

He'd watched fascination and old pain take turns along her delicate features. She had definitely placed the mark on Aithusa. "Do you?"

She shook her head, and he figured she wasn't going to offer any more than that. He'd have to trade some other bit of knowledge before she'd show him the trick behind 𐌞. _Ugh._ He'd dealt with her enough for tonight - Morgana was a constant mind game.

He stood, the Dolma's knees and ankles popping loudly. He couldn't wait to release this ageing spell. Maybe he'd undo it in the forest, and take the risk of being seen when returning to— "You're leaving?"

His mouth drops open, and hers presses into a thin line. She's _upset_ , he is astonished to perceive. In quick motions she turns her face to the flames and scowls, and something cold settles in Merlin's heart. He knows exactly what she's doing, because he's done it himself.

She's berating herself for hoping.

* * *

 _Strangely enough, there's a rune for that._

 _It's_ 𐌔, _pronounced /s/, named Sowilo. He'd gotten close with it before - seen it's single strand curling about his finger._

 _He doesn't realize it stands for Hope until Morgana explains exactly why she hates to rely on it. She's in the middle of recounting a story of how close she'd been to hearing the identity of Emrys, when he sees the strands burst from her skin and wind, braid-like, with the_ 𐌔 _they'd traced in the ground._

 _Though all that comes later. In the present, she says:_

"I've mastered whole realms of magic. I've taken thrones, and I've raised armies. _I_ made myself the greatest dark witch in Albion." Her honesty reverberates between them, and its a bridge he'd thought he'd razed, but now he feels it trembling through his feet as if they'd placed a treacherous new cornerstone together. "I needed nothing and no one. And when I was at my most broken, I _had_ nothing and no one, but my greatest enemy."

 _Weakness,_ 𐌈 _, is another that falls into place. It helps that he can recognize the emotion in himself every time he says he will be tougher on Morgana, only to latch onto whatever slivers of humanity she shows. He'd like to say he's being vigilant, but in the seclusion of the forest and the lateness of the hour he is always something much more dangerous. So is she.  
_

She is bitter and sincere and a hundred other subtle things he'd forgotten how to read on her face. "I can't do this alone anymore. Neither can you."

 _The lines blur, and these shades of her are too achingly familiar._

"Magic's beauty should be shared, shouldn't it?"

* * *

 _From Eden sung by Hozier_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) Bloodjen requested Merlin and kittens. That of course inspired Aithusa being a doll, and of course I decided to throw an actual cat in for good measure. Apparently, the Romans may have brought the first felines to England in the first or second centuries, so it's quite possible for Albion to have cats.  
(2) The runes are based on Elder Futhark runes, but I have taken a lot of liberties with the translation, transliteration, and interpretation. Largely this was because of available fonts in FF and my own crack-like addiction to making up magic.  
(3) Recall that Iseldir's camp is growing and is sanctioned by Arthur (Part 1, P2: Alpha Bitch).  
(4) Merlin references the 'battle in Essetir', referring to P2: The Audacity of Hope.  
(5) Traditional soap could be made from lye, done by boiling ashes and mixing with fat. Here I pretend that Hunith doesn't add enough fat to her soap, so it's a bit harsh for little Merlin.  
(6) I throw in a few probably-not-already-invented chemical combinations for gunpowder/fireworks. Though the powers of aluminum powder seems reasonable to have figured out, especially if there were blacksmiths.

 **Author's Note:**

Asseverate: to affirm or declare positively or earnestly. I.e. "he always asseverated that he did not know." Thanks to dmarie1184 for that head-scratcher. I'd never heard of that word before this.

Dmarie1184 and Jewelsmg convinced me of a scene on young!Merlin with Hunith, and I adored that idea. Loved that scene. Linorien got me on the idea of runes, and I was completely invested in coming up with their magic - so fun. Most didn't even make it in the story. Thanks to all three of these ladies for being such awesome people to talk to, and being such a help. PMs inbound for all you other absolutely wonderful reviewers, oh, and also thanks to Fireflyforever for requesting more Merlin and Morgana dialogue... a little bit here, and more next time! Those two get arguing and it's hard to stop them. I had to do some heavy reigning.

Merlin though... he's walking a tightrope. Then again, however, when isn't he?

 **Next time** : Save My Soul. As the Purge Trial approaches, a wicked tyrant comes to Camelot bearing a gift for the elusive Emrys.


	16. Never Again, Again

**Never Again, Again  
** _Early March_

"Is that real tea, Morgana? For me?"

"You needed to drink a good example."

Not treason at all, to have a rolling meeting time with one of the most wanted women in Camelot. They were only going to talk about _magic,_ after all. And look at her, she didn't even look like her usual witchy self, she'd… washed her face. That had to mean something good… right?

"Where have you been, you old crone? I expected you here last night."

Unfortunately for his guilty conscience, he was consistent enough for her to have a drink already boiling on a makeshift stand. _Which is new_ , he added. She'd been more productive, these days. There was always a fresh invention added to the forest's clearing. "Extended hunting trip. Can never have enough meat, I guess."

She quirked a brow and withdrew the second cup. "You chose salting meat instead of insulting me? I'm hurt."

Merlin kneaded at his old-woman hips because they were _already_ aching. "I thought you had a thicker skin."

"Don't get any ideas; I don't taste as good as I look."

He smirked. "You must be disgusting then."

She tilted her nose up imperiously, a haughty look she'd perfected in her youth. "That means nothing when the sight of your loose jowls consistently makes me throw up a little in my mouth."

"Cute, Morgana."

"Thank you. And I'll expect at least five more compliments before I tell you how to use the Chaos rune."

His eyes rounded with interest and he gushed, "You figured it out? Which one is it?" Then his hips got the better of him and he settled into his usual spot across from her.

She basked in the glory of making him wait, crossing her legs and tossing her hair. "A little less commanding, and a little more groveling."

As he took his tea from her outstretched palm, at this proximity catching a whiff of her oily curls and her filthy dress, his pinky caught on the cracked skin of her calluses and he wondered how many times she'd twitched those fingers and wrung someone's neck. She had a pretty face and a lasting wit, but… "Five compliments is a little much. Have some pity."

She barked a laugh. "Here's the thing about you," she leveled a finger at his face, "I can tell you aren't joking! You really think I'm the most evil thing to walk the land." She shook her head wryly. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know enough." He started with what had already come to mind, and ticked the other accusations off on his fingers. "You've murdered for your own gain, killed innocents, thrown Camelot into chaos for more power, and, perhaps most importantly, you consistently use dark magic."

"And what does that make you, you who's sharing my evil-sorceress-tea?" She arched an eyebrow at him. "I've been lied to, betrayed, bereft, and broken. Tell me with those honest eyes and your little disapproving frown that you've never strayed from the glowing path."

Uncontrollably, his frown deepened. "Of course I have," he admitted quietly.

"Let's hear it then," she smirked, proud that she'd won that bit of argument. "Tea's getting cold."

Being near her made stories of his first few years in Camelot come to mind, and while there were handfuls to choose from, he settled back to his most recent veer - the one that led him back to this forest every other night. "When you do terrible things, when you know you're wrong to do them but you do them anyways, what do you tell yourself later?"

"There you go assuming I'm a terrible person again," she said solemnly.

"Personally," he said, "I usually settle on _I had to do it_."

The fire popped, and an ember arced through the air and fizzled above Merlin's cup. It made him think of the Dolma's mask he would have seen reflected in the liquid, had the light only been a bit brighter.

"I get that," Morgana supplied, "I've used the same excuse. But I've noticed I used it most when I was at my weakest. When I couldn't face the choices I'd made."

"That's…" their gazes locked, "exactly it."

"I think it's a result of the way laws define magic. Our enemies built a high wall between them and us, and wishy-washy grayscale choices on our part will have no effect on it."

All those years ago, trying to convince himself Morgana was trustworthy despite evidence to the contrary had been one of those wishy-washy grayscale choices. Wonder what she would think of that? "I think blaming someone else for hard decisions we have to make is wrong. Then we're playing the victim."

"We _are_ victims. We're victims of the greatest exposition of hateful propaganda this side of the century."

"That doesn't give us the moral high-ground. I've used a blast of magic to snap the necks of a group of men, and it's absolute cognitive dissonance to say I was the victim, and therefore deserve pardon."

She sighed, muttering a little. "I'm not saying to call yourself a victim. Anyone who thinks whining is a reasonable form of conversation deserves to be tortured a little." She waved his disapproving comment away, "My point is, stop judging yourself by different rules than everyone else is playing by."

"But the rules are _wrong_ , Morgana."

Morgana was the kind of girl, when she was back in Camelot, who always had an opinion to make. So, it was rare to see her like this - her bottom lip sliding forward and her regal eyebrows drawing together - a little baffled and a lot focused. "Yes," she said eventually. "You're right."

Merlin chuckled dryly, "And yet I don't feel any better."

Her expression cleared and she leaned forward, eyes bright and reminiscently youthful. "But I'm willing to suffer the repercussions of all those terrible decisions if it means one day the rules will change."

He had to look away. At times she could be incredibly vehement and wild, and it spoke to the different paths they'd taken since the hemlock, but it was bitterly ironic that she would come to many of the same conclusions he himself had.

To that end he raised his tea, as if to call a half-hearted toast. "Well, I can cheers to that."

* * *

Eventually she did tell him the trick behind the Chaos rune and how it related to the Order rune that Merlin had previously shown her, and then they argued for a bit on how it could best be used. He couldn't help but be quietly amazed at her understanding of magic, though apparently that insight came through skill with the blacker arts. You must know magic to destroy it, as she'd said.

Now that he was away from her, tramping through the forest of Ascetir while preparing to teleport back into his room in Camelot, he had the mental space to call her a hypocrite. How could she tout herself as a defender of magic and its people, yet destroy both with dark spells?

 _"_ _Astýre",_ he muttered, then frowned at his thoughts as the air began to slip around him. He'd have to bring this up with her next time. Surely she wouldn't have an excuse for that.

His tunnel stretched and expanded to slip around the Dolma's body. It tugged him through into that strange half-world of golden lattice, the distance and the aging spell and the late hour taking its toll on his strength, so that when he finally brought himself to the space near his cot he nearly staggered.

He likely would have fell all the way to sitting had a swordpoint at his throat not imbued an extra desire to stand. "You better be Merlin, or this isn't going to be pretty. _"_

Merlin cursed and let the glamour fall away until he could face the intruder properly. "Seriously? Who else would it be?"

Gwaine gave him a look while sheathing his sword. "Where have you been? And why were you camouflaged as a woman?"

He tugged the navy cloak Arthur had gave him over his head, but at the sudden chill replaced it with his old jacket. "Dragoon is recognizable. Why are you in my room?"

"You're late to the Round Table meeting."

Merlin's eyebrow rose, and he poked his head out of his window to check the sky. Yep, that was definitely still the moon. "It's the middle of the night."

Gwaine shrugged, "Arthur's pantyhose are in a twist." Merlin muttered an answer about Arthur's continuing inability to dress himself, and Gwaine filled him in on Gaius' lie. Apparently the elder man had claimed he'd called out to Merlin, heard some gruff response, and assumed he was getting up.

Of course, that meant that the moment he walked into the Throne Room Arthur lobbed, "Don't bother with beauty sleep anymore, Merlin, I promise you it's not working."

Gwen - Arthur's one redeeming quality, as his sleep-deprived brain so named her - smiled warmly at him. "I'm glad you're here, Merlin. We were just about to discuss the amount of guests coming to Camelot. We'll have to have our best face forward, and we can't do that without you."

"Hear that, Arthur? Gwen says my face is prettier than yours."

"Don't answer that, Princess," Gwaine flopped into his seat, "I'm too tired for mental sparring." The other knights nodded in agreement, and the movement brought the side of Leon's face into sight, where his blonde hair was still plastered to his forehead. They'd pulled him from bed a little too quickly.

"Gwaine is correct," Gaius said. "Let's focus on the matter at hand. What is troubling you, sire?"

Arthur folded his arms on the table. "You all know that King Bayard from Mercia is arriving tomorrow morning, right?"

"Yes," Leon answered, "He and I arranged the date when we met before winter."

"Well, he'll be extending his stay until after the Purge Trial." Arthur shifted in his chair, pressing a fingernail into a dust-filled crack in the wooden table. "And he's not the only one. Word has spread further than I expected. Caerleon, Gawant, Deorham, and Nemeth are all sending ambassadors, Iseldir's bringing enough Druids to fill the courtyard, and a messenger from Amata got here only an hour ago. The Sarrum will be attending, along with half his court."

Gwaine whistled lowly, "You've got a big boy audience."

"What's the problem?" Percival asked. "We've had similar sized crowds during tournament season."

"The problem," Arthur frowned, "is that I may have turned my reign, and Camelot, into an exhibition. My weakness will be on display."

"I think you're earning a lot of respect," Gwen soothed. "Most rulers are too unapologetic to do something like this. You're a good man, our citizens love you, and you trust the people around you to do the right thing. The trial is only proving that to a wider audience."

Her words had a visible effect on Arthur that made Leon smirk, "And why worry if Gwen will be leading the proceedings?"

"She'll be there to save you if you make a fool of us," Percival added.

"Besides, they may not even be coming for you," Elyan said. "Emrys is speaking too. Isn't he some huge Druid figurehead?"

Arthur's eyebrows drew together, his mouth pinched, and what would one day be permanent worry lines wrinkled across his face. "We haven't heard from him. He might not show up."

Merlin couldn't stand by and watch him feel that way, not when he had a great view of everyone wincing at how embarrassing it would be for Arthur. "He'll be there." He cleared his throat, now having to go all in. "He gave me a message for you."

"What?!" Arthur looked at him sharply. "When?"

He hedged. "Just now… in a dream?"

Arthur had gone straight past the annoyed _Mer_ lin and instead into _MERLIN_ , "You didn't want to _lead_ with that?"

"I was building up to it."

Gwaine threw his hands up in a way that Merlin translated as _I can't believe he bought that!_ "And if Emrys doesn't show up, Merlin will use an aging spell and play the part."

Arthur's words drawled witheringly towards him. "Be serious, Gwaine."

He scoffed. "Aren't I, though?"

"You both are the reason I grind my teeth at night," Arthur muttered under his breath. "What's the message, Merlin?"

 _Er…_ "He's coming to the trial, definitely."

" _Anything else?_ "

"He looks forward to speaking with you… peacefully… and a chair would be nice because he's old and it's hard to stand for a long time. Also he said you should give me more time off—"

Arthur did the thing where he held his breath while silently counting to ten. His face always went a little red from the lack of oxygen, and Merlin held his lips shut, knowing from experience that this was Arthur a few choice remarks away from throwing goblets. "Thank you Merlin, that's enough." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Well, this is good news, I think. Emrys talks to my manservant in his sleep."

"I'm glad we've all accepted that without question," Gwaine muttered.

"The point is," Gaius interjected swiftly, "that he'll risk his life to attend this trial. He trusts you to treat him fairly, in spite of your history. If these many rulers are here to see anything, sire, they are here to bear witness to men both singular and inspiring. They _must_ be here to stand ready for the change you will wrought."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," Leon nodded.

"I've lived many years," Gaius continued, "and I've never seen a king face his kingdom's mistakes so bravely."

Gwen smiled, "Thank you, Gaius."

"Great," Gwaine finished, almost sourly. "Meeting adjourned?"

* * *

This was all much ado about something that really should not have been as much of something as it was turning out to be, in Gwaine's humble opinion. Honestly, the two major players in this trial were standing right next to him, and a lot of the anxiety could be avoided if Merlin would quit pretending like keeping secrets had ever worked in his favor.

Practically proving his point, the secret sorcerer was frowning something fierce as the Amatan royal party rode closer. The reason? As if Gwaine could guess. Who knew what went on in Merlin's head? But glowering felt like exactly the thing to do. Gwaine had been on his best behavior all week; his cheeks were done with smiling.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately, considering) this thought process put the aptly named 'bad-boy' look all over his infamously rugged features. The combination could hardly be ignored, so really it should have come as no surprise that the pretty-boy on the white horse sent him a slow wink.

Arthur was chatting, the Sarrum was chatting back, everyone else was pretending to pay attention, and Gwaine eyebrows were halfway up his forehead. Subtly, his eyes slid left, then right, and then he tapped a thumb against his chest. _Me?_

The man ran a hand through his thick head of hair, and raised a dark brow. _Oh, yes._

Well, then. This was a thing that was happening. The man's cape had gold clasps where it buckled over his throat - did that make him the prince? Wow. This needed eyewitnesses.

 _Is anyone else seeing this?_ He tried to angle enough to catch the notice of one of his friends. The knights in their red capes fanned out to his sides with the castle at their back, but they ignored him. Gwaine was usually the restless one, so that came as no surprise. Beyond them, in the shadows of the castle's archways, servants stood by with bowed heads, prepared to take bags and horses when Arthur and the Sarrum were finished talking about… _the terrain? Yeesh Princess, get a personality._

Merlin though was in his usual position as a lanky, three-dimensional version of Arthur's shadow, and that should have given him a front row seat to this surprise romance. Instead, his brows were furrowed and he was staring avidly at a cloth-wrapped trailer at the rear of the Amatan assembly. It had wheels, and a rigid, box-like shape, and as he studied it a guard began to trundle it forward.

This was in response to a raised hand from the Sarrum - a ghoulish man by any standards - but he looked particularly gleeful as his prize approached. "My prisoner is unconventional. You see, it will play a role in my defense of the Purge." He turned to his men, "Ensi, release the tarp."

The prince turned back to his father, a serious expression falling over his face. Silently he spurred his horse forward the few steps to close a hand tightly around the heavy cloth, then, with a mighty heave, he yanked the covering above his head with the skill of a court entertainer. It rippled in the air, made light by his strength, revealing the bars of a metal cage and within them - a monster.

At first it was a thrashing serpent's tail, scales large and steel blue and mud-encrusted. But the monster blended into the translucent skin of a thing nearly human, arms thin and fingers long and spindly, with wing-like fins of the same fishy texture protruding from its back. It's head was a grotesquerie of large lidless eyes and a lipless maw filled with rows of carnivorous teeth open wide as it, and the ragged gills straining in its neck, struggled for air.

Merlin couldn't tear his eyes away. This wasn't the first magical creature he'd seen carted into Camelot, and it would be easy for everyone to turn their hearts away from the flapping thing, but there was an intelligence behind its eyes. There was fear and pain and desperation and - "My manservant will lead him."

His attention snapped to Arthur, but the expectant crowd spurred him nervously forward as his brain hurried to fill in the blanks. _Lead who, where?_ He thought desperately.

The answer came in the form of a bald-headed hulk of a man stepping before the cage. He wrapped a chain onto each forearm, angled himself until veins stood out in ropey relief against his thick neck, and then began to trundle towards Merlin, who sidestepped away. Understanding his purpose now, Merlin marched the man into narrower passages, leaving behind the sunlight and the people and listening to the creature's garbled words echoing from the eaves.

When they reached the wide set of double doors that would lead down into the lower levels of the castle, Merlin picked up the pace. One door he propped with a heavy stone, and the other he held back with a hand. He exchanged no words with the guard, whose eyes were narrowed at the pathway ahead like a trained boar. In fact he hardly glanced at Merlin as he passed, sweat dripping through the divots in his muscles, and he moved onward until the cage passed hardly a foot from Merlin's nose.

At the opportunity the creature snapped upwards, making a roaring mess of sound that could be taken as a curse or a plea, and its yellow eyes focused on the servant in the shadow of the door. It's stick-like fingers ending in razor claws wrapped around the metal bars, and it's spine went rigid, mouth working, gills flapping. It thrust words directly into his mind.

 _Merlin? Merlin, help me, please. Merlin, please help me help me please Merlin —_

* * *

Four hours later Arthur makes it to the dungeon.

He stands with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet shoulder width apart. His nose is to the bars of the prison for a better view of the creature now supplying the rumor mills of Camelot. He's not afraid it will leap at him, because it's still doubly trapped within the Sarrum's portable cage as well. Two sets of locks to get through to free the thing, and one set of keys never leaves the rival king's hip.

He knows this because the Sarrum is here too. Arthur's hoping that seclusion from the entire staff is enough to inspire honesty, and for the same vein he invited Bayard as well. But the Mercian king is leaning a shoulder on the back wall with his arms crossed, waiting on Arthur and the Sarrum.

"Why bring it?" Arthur began.

"Your father and I were great allies in the war," the Sarrum chose to say, instead. "We saw many dangers that we were fortunate to exterminate."

"Like the dragons?" Bayard added sarcastically. "Because I recall a golden dragon razing Camelot not too long ago."

"The Great Dragon is dead," Arthur said with confidence, despite the fact he hardly remembers injuring the thing, much less killing it.

"And for good reason," the Sarrum continued. "Many creatures that terrorized our citizens were killed in the process of purging these lands. In Amata, we once called this monster a _merrow_."

"In the North we call it a _ceasg_. It's a wives tale to keep children away from fast flowing rivers."

"I can see how it would frighten children," Arthur replied, then gestured at the creature lying limply at the bottom of its cage, "but look at it now. If your plan is to scare our people into believing the Purge was justified, then your creature should look less pitiful." Arthur just felt sorry for it, and that did not lend itself to murderous ardour.

"This is what having magic can do to a person. Death is a mercy for people who have been corrupted by it, but fear of death is what caused so many of the battles during the Purge."

"I think defense of the Druidic way-of-life had a little to do with it too," Bayard commented dryly.

"As such, wouldn't everyone have been happier if there had been a more humane solution? Using this creature, I'll be able to show that solution much more emphatically."

"Why don't you explain for the room?" Bayard said. "You can save your showmanship for the trial."

The Sarrum's attention cut to the opposing king, and the air prickled between them. He stretched a tight smile across his aging face and answered Bayard as if he were telling a joke, "You're not very fun, are you?"

The Sarrum made a gesture to mean for Arthur to unlock the doors, which he acquiesced with his own set of keys. The door swung aside easily, and as their boots stirred through the hay the strong smell of wet grass turned wilted and mildewed pervaded the small room. The stench did not seem to affect the creature, it had only small slits for nostrils, but it eyed them warily with its eerily reflective vision. As they approached its cage, it slunk backwards.

The Sarrum crouched down to be eye level with the merrow, and he spoke directly to it. His voice had the toneless murmuring of someone familiar with training horses. "Magic ruined your life. You can't understand now, but you will once I free you from this wickedness." Without breaking eye contact, he reached beneath his cloak and untied a black velvet bag from his belt. His hands worked the material from the outside until he held something tight in a fist, then he unlaced the hood and worked it down until a slug's head had appeared.

At the sight of it the creature visibly recoiled. It screeched something unintelligible, but the Sarrum was already turning away. "This is an Eancanah. We discovered its powers late in the Purge, unfortunately. Many lives may have been saved if we'd used it earlier."

It sounded vaguely familiar, Arthur thought. He had likely heard about it from his father or during his studies, but he didn't remember the details. Luckily, the Sarrum continued to explain.

"This creature eats magic. It can absorb it directly from a sorcerer's body and allow the man to walk free after."

"I've met many men without an ounce of magic who were still very dangerous," Arthur said. Also, he couldn't imagine any of the sorcerer's he'd met as willing to part with the one thing they had been attacking him about in the first place.

"It's up to you how to deal with them once they're liberated from their magic."

Arthur could imagine all this going two ways. Either the Sarrum used this slug on the creature and it somehow saved it, causing a bout of thankfulness and proving the usefulness of this thing, or something terrible happened and the entire room would heave. He hadn't forgotten what he'd seen in Lot's lands.

The chime of the noon bell broke their concentration, and it signaled the Sarrum to return the Eancanah to the depths of the velvet. It was just as well, because there was a lot to reflect on. At the very least, Arthur knew he had more research to do.

Perhaps he's stop by Gaius' chambers during the lunch hour. There was a patient in need of constant monitoring, and so even if he didn't find Gaius, he'd catch Merlin there.

 _Or,_ he thought cynically, _I'll find Merlin right here._

He'd just swung wide the heavy iron door blocking the row of prisons from the lit guard station, and he'd heard a short scrabble before emerging to two guards blinking sleepily and Merlin loitering around looking bothered.

"You'll have to excuse me," Arthur said to the two kings, mentally imagining shaking Merlin by his lapels. "My manservant has come to fetch me for another engagement. The guards will show you to your luncheons."

The Sarrum nodded regally and allowed himself to be led away, but Bayard walked straight past the second guard with a terse, "I think I've got it from here."

"Sire," the guard said roughly, then returned to his post. Arthur almost berated him for dozing on the job, but he had a better idea whose fault that was. So, he swiveled for the archway leading down into the catacombs and stomped off.

When he was more certain not to be overheard, he spoke gruffly out of the side of his mouth. "Did you dose my guards? Actually," he pinched his nose, "don't answer that. You were listening, weren't you?"

Merlin's long strides brought him even with Arthur's, and he grinned that goofy smile of his. "Would we be friends if I didn't do things like that?"

He rolled his eyes. "Well, what do you think? Do you believe the Sarrum?"

Merlin grew instantly serious. "He can't be trusted. If he had his way, he'd be using the Eancanah on the Druids already."

"The Druids shouldn't be using magic within Camelot's borders. That's the law," Arthur argued.

"The law could be wrong," Merlin said quietly. "That's an understanding you could come to after the trial."

"This isn't a trial for or against magic," Arthur said stiffly. "Everyone is acting like it is, but it's not. It's a trial for the injustices of the Purge."

Merlin looked away, and they walked in silence for some time. This was a long hallway which steadily sloped downwards into what had once been a cave system. Arthur had been taught how they'd filled it in to help support the weight of the castle, but the area still had the smell of a damp underground.

When they were deep enough for their words to echo slightly off the vaulted ceilings, Merlin tried a different tactic. "Don't let the Sarrum use the Eancanah on the creature. It wouldn't save him. It would kill him."

"How do you know that?"

Bitterness tinged Merlin's words. "Eancanah _destroy_ magic, and magic is the only thing keeping him alive right now."

" _Him_ , Merlin? Don't you think you're getting a little too attached? It's not your pet."

"I know that; he's a living being." Merlin sucked in a breath, and when he spoke again his voice was low and earnest. "He doesn't deserve to be penned in, frightened and alone until he's put on display to die. He deserves to be free."

Arthur connected their gazes, and he took a long moment to study his best friend. Even when they'd first met, Merlin had been the type to defend those whom conventional wisdom would tell you to ignore. Merlin had taught him what it really meant to defend all of your people, and though he would never admit to that, Arthur knew to trust Merlin's heart.

"That slug, Arthur, is evil. It's pure evil."

Arthur's eyes slid closed and he shook his head, exasperated at what he'd decided on. "Don't make me regret this, Merlin."

Merlin's expression opened, hope stretching his eyes wider. "Are you sanctioning a prison break? Because tonight would be perfect —"

He hissed and held his hands up. "I don't want to know any details." He turned on his heel and walked back the way they'd come, muttering, "Just do it quick, and don't get caught."

Merlin smiled wide enough for Arthur to count his molars. "Yes, sire."

* * *

Right around this time, Gwaine was getting roped into giving a certain prince a tour around the castle grounds, then the tournament grounds, and then the depths of the lower town. Because why not?

The cul-de-sac that had birthed the iconic connotation 'yellow-stripe' was a stone circle crammed with double-story buildings stuccoed together with a plaster that had faded to the color of piss. At this time of day there was a dreary harshness that reminded you of early morning regret, but the energy inside door number one, The Cavalry, blew that completely from your mind. One step in and your eyelids were blinking away smoke and struggling to adjust to the dim lightning, and two steps in and a boisterous girl was dragging you to a table and cupping a hand in the area of your belt.

She winked when she found Gwaine's coin purse.

"Now this is a party!" The Ensi said, his accent pulling the 'a' long and immediately enticing a dark-haired girl onto the bench beside them. "Game of jacks?" She asked coyly.

"Games, I can play games anywhere," the Ensi said. "Tell me about you!" His smile was full of lustrous confidence and it drew the girl in like a mosquito to a light. She was so enraptured that she didn't even flicker despite only getting about ten words out before he'd slapped a hand on the table and drew her under his arm. "I like you. I like your nose. Have you ever worn a snake?"

"No?"

"We have many snakes in Amata. The ones with no poison can be very friendly. Even the ones with poison can be very friendly if you know how to treat them. Do you know how to treat them, my lady?"

Good time for drinks. Gwaine took a turn for the bar, and had to squirm out of the way as the hostess swept by with a bright smile on her face. From the thud of the door behind him, it sounded like there was another guest, and only because his ears were tuned to it he heard the coo of her voice, "Did you just come to sit?"

"No, I came for him."

Gwaine slowly arched a single eyebrow, then pivoted and propped his elbows on the bartop behind him. "How could you possibly have found me here? _I_ didn't even know I was going to be here until ten minutes ago."

Merlin joined him at the bar with a smirk, "Where did Arthur tell you not to go?"

"Sound logic."

Merlin chuckled and scanned the room until his eyes landed on the Ensi. He jerked his head at the prince and asked, "Think you can distract him tonight?"

Wait, so Merlin _had_ seen the winks? Gwaine gaped. " _All_ night?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Well… wait a second. Why are you asking?"

"Long story short," Merlin leaned a little closer, "that monster from Amata is actually a friend of mine. Arthur is letting me bust him out and I need to make sure no one is in the dungeon while I'm moving him."

Gwaine held up a finger and circled it around in the air. "So much of what you just said is super weird," he flicked Merlin's nose, "start with the part where you're friends with a manfish."

"He's not a manfish. His name is Gilli." Merlin ran a hand through his hair. "His uh… stuff went awry while trying to escape from the Sarrum's troops."

Gwaine poked his tongue in his cheek and tried not to smile. "His stuff? He swings your way, then?"

"Very funny, Gwaine."

He shrugged, it was funny. "So you know how to change him back?"

"Not really. I think I'll take him to that one underground cave until I figure it out."

He couldn't help but grin at the irony. "You mean that other underground prison?"

"I'll make it comfortable," Merlin said awkwardly. When Gwaine started laughing he had to admit this wasn't much of a prison break. He strode off and muttered, "Fine, let's go make sure it meets your requirements." He and his iconic cheekbones were halfway up the stairwell before he noticed Gwaine was looking at him bug-eyed. "Aren't you coming?"

"Up there?"

"Yeah?" Merlin said obliviously. "It would take too long to walk back to the castle." He pointed upwards. "I figured we could use a room here."

Gwaine's mind went blank and he swore he could see the Ensi pouting from the corner of his eye. This may have been one of the strangest days of his life, and he'd met dragons.

But yeah, he went up there. He was cool with that.

At the base, the stairs were re-purposed rubble. But as you rose higher they transitioned into a patchwork of wooden planks that creaked loudly underfoot and gave you that cringey feeling that everyone could hear you getting closer to that long dark hallway with the thick doors and rectangular sliding peepholes. When Gwaine finally made it to that upper story of late night secrets, Merlin had his ear to a door and a smirk on his face. "This one's empty."

"People are going to start wondering about you, mate."

Merlin's eyes flashed and the knob swung loose under his palm. "People are already wondering. We're up here."

The room smelled a little. That was gross. "Well for the record, I was the big spoon."

Then it was Merlin's fist on his sleeve and that stomach-sucking emptiness and topsy-turvy disorientation like being two pints too drunk but somehow still sober enough to hate every second of it. The way his vision swam afterwards had become his most hated part of teleporting, and he needed long minutes blinking at the cave wall slowly rippling into steadiness before he felt stable enough to look at Merlin's horrendous decorating skills. "A chair, Merlin, really? He's a fish."

Merlin shoved the rock back into place and huffed, "Yeah I don't know what I'm doing," before disappearing in a spell. Half a minute later he returned holding the wooden tub from the Physician's chambers and nearly knocked Gwaine off the small ledge they were clustered onto. "Oops," he said.

Arms pinwheeling, "Do something!"

Rocks cracked and lengthened, and when he was forced to step back for his balance, smooth stone held him up. It gleamed under his boot like polished marble, and as he caught his breath he watched the floor radiate outward, floating on air. It slid viscously around the cave's natural pillars, clinging to them as anchors, and he watched awestruck as the expanse of the magically-laden floor slid into the darkness beyond. When Merlin's eyes faded back, they listened to the creaking of rock solidifying into place.

"I was thinking more like a ledge, but this is nice too." It would make a stonemason weep.

The little bit of sunlight glinted off the polished surface and Gwaine walked out onto what had once been empty space. The cave was huge, big enough for a dragon to fly in for years (while chained), and it was filled with natural swoops and dripping stalactites and far below, a thin river that likely fed into the waterwells of Camelot.

He was still getting over the odd feeling that he was defying gravity and the floor would break any second when he made it to the center. Merlin was conjuring water into the bath, and so Gwaine swung his head back and looked up through the cave opening at the blue sky above them. Without the sun, it would be impossible to tell where Merlin's floor ended and empty space begun. He swiveled back to his friend. "You should add some lights."

"You're demanding."

But Merlin whispered something that sounded like _light_ , and little spheres of blue drifted upwards like bubbles.

* * *

And that evening, when the moon had risen into the cave's small window to the sky, those lights glittered above like a thousand stars.

Merlin looked down at his red robe, mentally nitpicking the glamour spell he'd used to transform into Dragoon. His first few times with the spell he'd used Gaius' old clothes, but now that he was transfiguring his own shirt he had to make sure he hadn't missed any important details. He was pretty sure the patterned borders were completely different than the original set; they were much less ornate now, but he liked that.

He practiced his old man voice a few times, a task which consisted of quoting some of Gaius' more common phrases, "Merlin, clean the leech tank. Leech tank. _Leech tank_ ," and when he felt confidently in character he croaked, " _Astýre._ "

He aimed for the particular cell he had left Gilli trapped in, hoping for a quick in and out, but when he materialized in the small square there was a Camelot guard standing two inches away. His eyes were wide, a look which Merlin mirrored, and at this distance, Merlin could tell his nose had been broken at least twice, poor guy.

Gilli backed up this stellar heist with a cracking sound. He had bit clean through the bone in a chunk of salted meat, and the steady crunching spurred the guard into motion. The bag of food slid from the guard's numb fingers as he scrabbled for his sword.

Merlin held up both hands in a mock surrender. "Do you really think the merrow's imprisonment is worth fighting me?"

"It's my job," the guard said as he struggled with his weapon. Merlin had fused it into the scabbard.

"Would Arthur really want you to throw your life away?"

"I swore to protect Camelot from threats to the peace like you," he answered proudly.

Merlin started clapping. "Congratulations!" He shifted his gaze to the doorway and pointed at an imaginary audience, "You've passed our test and proven yourself a worthy knight of Camelot!"

The guard was wary to turn, but his shoulders lost some of their tension. "Really?"

"No," Merlin responded just as the guard's eyeballs rolled into the back of his head, "but maybe next time."

The guard crumpled, snoring, into the hay below and Gilli snarked, _"Those clothes are going to need a thorough washing."_

"You couldn't have scared him off earlier?"

Gilli shrugged bony shoulders. " _I was hungry."_

With noted exasperation, Merlin stepped over the downed guard and reached through the locked cage to grab Gilli's thin shoulder. Sucking in a breath, he measured the return path and his remaining magic before squeezing his eyes shut and flinging them across the distance. This time he had no unexpected guests, and Gilli plopped smoothly into the tub of water.

Immediately submerging, Gilli took greedy gulps of air while humming, _"Oh, this feels amazing."_

Merlin slouched against the wall and let the magical exhaustion wash over him. As the aging spell dissipated, his own magic reached out for the ambient magic in an attempt to replenish his depleted stores. It left a slightly unpleasant, cold feeling in his stomach that kept most of his attention until Gilli popped back out and spit a stream of water at him.

 _"_ _So how are you going to get my legs back?"_

"One thing at a time," Merlin sighed. "Tell me properly how you did this to yourself."

 _"_ _Extreme unluckiness. After Sina escaped they cornered me at the Tamesis. I don't know as many spells as you, so I had limited options. I thought I could use the glamor spell you taught me to transfigure myself into a sea creature but… maybe I said the words wrong or something."_

"Can you repeat what you said?"

" _Er… Adeadaþ þisne… gust min freondum and max feondum?"_

"Yeah… that doesn't make any sense."

 _"_ _You try spouting off some Old English nonsense while swimming for your life."_

Merlin lamented his luck while he walked over to the tub. When he leaned his hands against the tub's rim his fingers dipped into the cool water and he wiggled them as he thought.

 _"_ _Stop that, it tickles."_

He ignored that and instead put his hand atop Gilli's bald head. "I'm going to try some stuff. Try not to squirm."

He dug deep and let his remaining magic run through his veins. Naturally it turned his eyes gold and he used the extra sense it gave to look through the veil into the world's magic beyond. He was hoping he could recognize or destroy whatever spell held Gilli in this form, but even this inspection found nothing out of the norm. No magical bonds held the facade in place, and he frowned as he confirmed Gilli had done something seemingly permanent to himself. He didn't know how to fix this.

Though lack of knowledge hadn't ever stopped him before. Usually there would be research to do, or Gaius or Kilgharrah to ask, but Merlin already knew he was treading on rarely walked ground. His delving into the runes had proven that he was reaching a stage where there weren't many other people who could teach him. He had to figure this out himself.

So he tried another glamor. But it couldn't permanently dispel the transformation and he had to move into stranger and stranger magic until he felt like he was making things up as he went along. Maybe there was a way to make a spell seep into someone's skin? He'd had luck with those hexagon shapes, perhaps he should try those and….

He lurched, and Gilli's wet palm slapped against his shoulder and held him up. _"I can handle one more night as a fish."_

Merlin nodded and slunk down against the tub. He let his ankles slide against the rough rock below and leaned his head against the old wood. His mind drifted through a motley mix of golden patterns, and beneath his ear he let the sound of shifting water lull him blind.

* * *

He was lost somewhere there in the murk when Gwaine nudged his thigh. "Hate to wake you, mate, but word's getting out that Gills is missing."

"It's Gilli," Merlin replied drowsily.

"Not anymore," Gwaine quipped. "And seriously, Merlin, you need to have an alibi. Wakey wakey."

"I'm up, I'm just… give me a minute." Merlin scrubbed his hands across his face, and Gwaine left him to get his head in the game. Meanwhile, there was a manbeast to inspect. Its big yellow eyes were gleaming eerily through the surface of the water, and Gwaine poked a finger at the fleshy skin between them. It nearly snapped his finger off. "You sure this is your friend?"

"Yes," Merlin said, propping his head in his hand, "but I can't figure out how to change him back."

"You'll figure it out," he answered with confidence, because he had yet to see a magical situation Merlin hadn't subsequently blown the socks off of. "Besides, if you knew curses inside and out, I'd start questioning you again."

Merlin thunked his head against the wood, aggravated at himself, then reached behind his neck to untie a leather cord. It was the end of a necklace which had hidden beneath Merlin's clothes, and as he withdrew it he revealed the gem at its center - an ornate ring of the smoothest glass. Reverently, Merlin tipped it into his palm.

Gilli emerged more fully from the water and cocked his head. Merlin gestured for his hand, and when the long, spindly fingers were in Merlin's grasp, he slipped the ring onto them. Admittedly, Gwaine expected blasts of light or sparkling rainbows, so when nothing seemed to happen he was at a bit of a loss. "Did it work?"

"He's still a fish," Merlin answered dryly.

"You looked so serious," Gwaine said while Merlin returned the ethereal jewelry to its original home over his heart. "And it's not like I know anything about what rings can do to manfishes."

"It's a cursebreaker," he noticed the strangely poignant sadness stretching Merlin's face, "it worked for her so I thought… but Gilli's not under a curse."

Gwaine tried to connect the dots, suddenly not so eager to get Merlin outside. "Was it your mother's?"

Merlin shook his head, "It's too long a story for right now. Hard to explain."

"Nope," Gwaine said, stepping in the way of the exit, "wrong answer, try again."

Merlin glared, "This isn't a funny one, Gwaine. I don't feel like telling it." Merlin brushed past, entire body language screaming that the conversation was over, and ducked into the dark tunnel beyond. Gwaine pointed a questioning finger at his back, but Gills only shrugged in equal confusion.

Gwaine jogged to catch up, ignoring the hints to shut up. "I kept my mother and sister a secret, and you know how terribly that turned out." Without Merlin lighting the way, and without the torch he'd initially brought with him, the tunnel was getting dark to the point he could barely see his boots. "I'm not asking for gossip, mate. I wouldn't tell anyone, and I know what it feels like to keep everything buried."

Now he couldn't even make out Merlin's silhouette, but he heard his disembodied voice sigh and the still of his pace. There was a scrape as Merlin must have leaned against the cave wall, and then he said, "I'm sorry."

He heard the old pain in Merlin's voice and things began to click into place. He knew what it felt like to lose someone you loved.

"Her name was Freya."

And she was a girl in a cage, dressed in rags, in line for death and terrified of it. And there was Merlin, not yet jaded and so very hopeful.

"She was cursed to become this creature, a Bastet, every night. She wasn't herself when she changed."

But there were plans to escape, and a rose as bright and brief as the time they'd had together. Apparently, she'd died in his arms.

"Usually…" Merlin started, but then faded into his thoughts. Gwaine gave him the time. This girl, Freya, had died years ago but it didn't feel like Merlin had fully let her go. Whether it was the guilty what-ifs or the the regretful I-wish-I'ds, he could relate. He'd lost his father, a man who had been his hero in the lens of his childhood, and that pain had never left.

"So the ring was hers," Gwaine finally prompted. "It kept the Bastet at bay."

Merlin's clothes rustled as his hand clenched over the necklace. "Yes. She gave it to me a few months ago," he hesitated and Gwaine tripped on the idea that she was still alive. "She became the spirit of the lake I buried her in. I've seen her twice since she died. The first time she returned Excalibur, and the second time she returned this ring," he swallowed thickly, "this is why it's so difficult to forget her."

"You don't have to forget her."

"Move past her, whatever," Merlin answered in a rush. His arm moved, likely to rub at his eyes, but Gwaine didn't call him on it. "She showed me the life where we did escape, and where I fixed her curse and we got married and had a hut in the woods… in that dream I knew her for years. It's so hard to pretend like it never happened. I'll _always_ love her."

Gwaine reached out blindly, not knowing how to comfort him but wanting to. His hand landed on Merlin's shoulder, and his fingers dug into the hollow between muscle and bone. "Don't pretend like it didn't happen." Merlin shifted to protest, but his grip tightened. "Seriously, listen to me. I wasted years in a half-life trying to shed my nobility. Percival, Elyan— everyone, actually— has lost a piece of themselves to death, but learning who we were _without_ that piece made us worthy of the Round Table."

Merlin shrugged out of his hold, but when he spoke his voice was warm. "Thank you," a soft blue light brightened between them and lit Merlin's friendly smile. "You're a good friend."

"I know," he replied. Merlin gestured them to continue forward, hand falling from Freya's ring but the gold of magic dancing in his eyes. The irony of it bit at Gwaine, because here was Merlin when at his most free and honest, but he required a forgotten passageway hidden hundreds of feet underground to exist. "This is why you'll never sit at the Round Table, isn't it?"

Merlin glanced back, but didn't answer.

"Because you're still acting. You're still living a half-life."

"Maybe a three-quarters life, I've got you," Merlin smiled wryly. "But you're right. I'll never take that seat. Not until I've explained what I really am, and Arthur is fully aware of what he's offering."

* * *

"Potatoes?"

Gwen blinked at her already laden plate and then shook her head. "No, thank you." Her stomach has been upset recently, and all this food despite smelling delicious did not look appetizing. Arthur passed the dish back to the kitchen servant and waved her down the table.

It was Ari for this course, Gwen noticed, and Gwaine's sister had taken this task with absolute seriousness. Her back was ramrod straight and her face impassively blank as she extended the potatoes to the next at the table, the Ensi. He winked at her out of view of his father as she scooped a healthy spoonful, and Gwen was thankful that nothing came of it. This supper was filled with enough tension as it was, between the three kings and Druid leaders, that any father-son issues were sure to give someone a stress-sickness just by proximity.

Further proof: "Do Druids eat potatoes?"

 _Oh, spirits._ "Yes, we eat the same foods you eat," Iseldir answered pleasantly. Ruadan, another respected Druid elder with hair gone an early grey, took this less in stride, scowling particularly unpleasantly.

"I had this idea you were all vegetarian," the Ensi said, "animal-loving forest-folk, you know."

"I do love a good cut of swine," Iseldir smiled.

"I remember when I took down my first boar," Arthur chuckled, "I was so proud - I hung its tusks from my bedroom wall. It took months before I realized it had only been a child."

He laughed, and many of the others politely smiled along. The good humor was so strained that Gwen almost put her face in her hands and groaned. She fought the urge, instead supporting Arthur's story with, "King Bayard, you must have some good hunting stories."

"I don't find much enjoyment in the sport," Bayard responded dully. He had a thick mustache and beard so it seemed his mouth was barely moving. "I've spent too many years hunting humans."

The Sarrum chortled, eyeing Iseldir and Ruadan. "You Druids were very hard to catch."

"We still are," Ruadan said stiffly, "we're still being chased out of nearly every kingdom in Albion."

"Ah," the Sarrum said, leaning back in his chair and looking victorious. "So you are one of the Druids from Lot's lands?"

Ruadan's eyes flicked to Arthur's. They had met in Essetir while Lot had been rounding up the Druids, and when Arthur, Gwaine, and Merlin had left to find out why. Though, they'd kept that particular mission a secret from most. "Yes, my tribe is from the northern forests."

"Well then, I'd love to hear your opinion on the revolt."

"I'm sure death is not something to be spoken of at the dinner table."

"Oh, it's all for friendly debate," the Sarrum smiled. "I've only heard rumors, and I'd love to hear the truth from my new Druid friend Ruadan."

Ruadan's lips pressed into a thin line, his derision for the Amatan king hardly suppressed. "We were trapped there many weeks, penned in on the outskirts of the stronghold. Winter approached with no end to the confinement. There was a small skirmish, and in the confusion many of my people escaped into the forests."

"Small?" The Ensi leaned forward curiously, "I hear forty of Lot's men died."

"I hear Emrys himself was there shooting lightning from the sky; you can't believe everything you hear," Bayard sneered.

"But he is the type, isn't he?" The Sarrum's eyes slunk around the table in his excitement to drop this unheard piece of news, "He appeared at my castle making threats only a few months ago - blew up a well on his way out."

Arthur caught Gwen's eye, and she understood the frown hidden in them. It was hard to correlate the strange old hermit Dragoon with the magical threat that came laden on the name of Emrys. It proved they had little idea who they had invited into their borders. "He's not warlike," Arthur said, and that was so far from what she had expected him to say, and the surprise showed so obvious on her face, that Arthur had to continue. "He has a great magical ability, but he's never used it for a throne."

At the words Iseldir glowed with delight, and Gwen filed that information away. She and Arthur had long had the suspicion that Iseldir was working with Emrys. "I believe he prefers to act from the shadows."

Yet on the other side of the coin Ruadan huffed lightly under his breath, obviously perturbed at that truth, "Then he is a coward." Camelot had already taken the flames of many revenge-soaked Druids, and they didn't want another attack when half the country would be here to see it. She'd have to watch out for him.

The Sarrum slapped his hand on the table and chortled. "I like you. I agree! We have little to fear from a man that hides behind anonymity."

"Yet didn't he kill your father, Arthur?" Bayard asked, his usual straightforward manner once again sending them skidding.

Arthur tensed with the question, and to comfort him Gwen squeezed his knee beneath the table. "I'm aware," he replied tersely. "But that's for he and I to discuss."

Quietly Iseldir added, "Didn't he also aid in the recovery of Camelot only last year? I heard he drained Morgana's magic."

At this the Sarrum hummed thoughtfully while his son picked at his food in utter boredom. This was juxtaposed by Ruadan whose eyes had sharpened in interest. "Why protect a country that would kill him, from a magic-user like himself?" Thoughts seemed to hit him in an array and that gaze snapped to Arthur. "Perhaps he has a soft spot for you. Many of his legends talk about a pet king."

Arthur prickled, "I am owned by no man."

Gwen squeezed again in an effort to prevent even more blatant confrontation. "Nor are we hiding any sorcerer in our halls," she tried to infuse a serenity to the group through the warm tones of her voice.

It had only minor effect. "What of the strength of Excalibur, then?" Bayard asked.

This piqued the Ensi's attention, and the young man leaned forward with excitement. "I've heard this story! It's a fantastic one. Hilt deep in a stone, wasn't it? The strength of ten men couldn't remove it, but to come free it only needed the grasp of the true king of Camelot!"

The Sarrum looked amused, but not convinced. "Perhaps Emrys left it for you as a gift on his way to secure the witch."

"He did not hand me Camelot, or my sword." Arthur stood, removed Excalibur from its sheath to gleam in the firelight. "See for yourself - this is no magical blade."

The Ensi's eyebrow rose slowly, and he pointed at the gold inscription on the wide flat of the blade. "Isn't this magic-language?"

"No, runes are an ancient alphabet," Ruadan snapped.

Iseldir cocked his head to see the verbiage better. " _Take me up_ ," he read, then gestured to flip the blade over. "May I?" Arthur complied, and Iseldir translated the second phrase. " _Cast me away_. These are not spells."

"Thank you," Arthur said, sitting. And for an added proof he placed Excalibur in her hands. "Guinevere can confirm that it is a manmade blade. She was once a blacksmith and knows much about weaponry."

"It's been many years," she started, but Arthur smirked at her.

"You're just being humble."

"Go on, Queen Guinevere," Bayard said solemnly. "You have an admirable skill."

She smoothed a hand down the blade and tucked the compliment away to savour later. "I'll need a moment," she said, because how did one prove this blade was made with hammer and tongs? From the distance she'd generally viewed Excalibur she'd seen no imperfections, and even the most expert of blacksmith would err.

The edge was symmetrical and smooth - and without the tools of her shop it was unlikely she'd catch a mistake - so she focused for the other end, where gold filigree criss-crossed over the sturdy leather of the hilt and ended in an embossed pommel weighted for balance. In exquisite form it blended seamlessly with the cross guard in between, proving that the entire sword had been laboriously formed from a single stream of molten metal, and quenched with the expertise of a master craftsman. It reminded her of evenings in the forge with her father, home after a long day on her feet, air smelling with the sharp tang of metal and the smoky vapour of quickly boiled water.

The memory made her smile. In those last years it had only been she and him, but he'd always beamed at her like she was the only light he'd ever need in his life. He could have made this sword; he had the skill. He would have done so much for Camelot, and it killed her sometimes that he'd missed so much. He'd never get to meet her children.

She'd only done it because she'd been thinking of him - run her thumbnail over the fine metal at the base of the cross guard. It ran long and thin, shiny and sharp, and her father could wax for hours on the best angles to nick an attacking blade or deftly deflect it aside, and in this corner where metal met hilt, her nail caught in the tiny unexpected ridges of an artisan's mark.

"Guinevere, what do you think?"

She thought her stomach was going to come out of her throat. She thought the room was echoing, and she thought she may have lost three shades to a pallor of her skin.

"I think," she spoke, voice even though she reeled, "of all the weaponry I've made, seen, or used, it is the finest."

After all, her father had called it his magnum opus.

* * *

 _Love is Mystical by Cold War Kids_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) King Bayard - king of Mercia (P2: The Betas). The Sarrum - King of Amata (P1: Two Can Keep a Secret, Centuries). Ruadan (P2: The Audacity of Hope), and recall he and Sefa spent some weeks with Morgana.  
(2) Mermaids appear in British folklore as unlucky omens, both foretelling disaster and provoking it. Merrow or Ceasg - Irish and Scottish versions of the word 'mermaid'.  
(3) Ensi - Prince in Sumerian  
(4) Yellow-stripe district was a region/slang I started in P1, but it is the 'subtle' name for the raunchy area of town, and those that participate. Also - The Cavalry. Get it? GET IT? Ride in on those stallions, girl.  
(5) _Miht dagan, beþecce me. Adeadaþ þisne gast min freondum ond min feondum -_ original piece of the canon spell Merlin used for his initial transformation into Dragoon.  
(6) P1: Cinderella is referenced. In summary: Merlin goes to talk to Freya, she shows him a lost future where they get married and are briefly happy before she's killed by soldiers, and Merlin realizes his place was always meant to be in Camelot. She then gives him the cursebreaker / engagement ring that he used to break the Bastet's curse over her in this alternate future. Merlin's been wearing it since P2: Snow Angel.  
(7) Canon references in regards to Excalibur. S4E13 Arthur pulls Excalibur from the stone. S1E9 Gwen gives Merlin Tom's finest sword, and he gets it reforged in Kilgharrah's breath. The look and runes on the blade are pulled from Merlin wiki.  
(8) Potatoes are not native to England, like tomatoes, but the show used both so here they are again. Thanks to dmarie1184 for showing me her nerd - potatoes are native to South America! Also, KIMMIKY gave me some more great nerd!knowledge in regards to last chapter - gunpowder could have been in England by this time, but it would have been extremely expensive, and they wouldn't have known how to make it. Thank you ladies :)

 **Author's Note:**

Thanks to Linorien (Lady of the Lake in Sindarin, by the way) for helping me strengthen the plot of this chapter and sending me into a giggling fit over the nickname Gills. A fantastic beta. And great thanks to Dara and Jewels for being great friends and sources of inspiration, and especially Dara this chapter for pushing me through roadblocks. As to all of you reviewers, I appreciate you all to death. Seriously, you brighten my life. Also, please thank Tempest Rain for the Freya scene as a result of spamming me with reviews :) Absolutely convinced me to have Freya this chapter.

And then, of course, there's Gwen. Let's cheers to that.

 **Next time** : House of Cards. He shouldn't have expected such a precarious tower to stand forever.


	17. House of Cards

**—**

 **House of Cards  
** _Early March_

It was bright _bright_ **_bright_** in the Solar, like spending the morning sick in bed and then Elyan snatching open the drapes. Gwen had the same dizzy floating feeling as being sick too, and she didn't know why she was sitting here, alone. It was strange to be in this plush room with all her royal things but be wearing her old yellow dress. The threads were still coming out over her left knee; she'd have to patch those.

Downstairs, the door thudded. Then voices. Oh, Merlin must be delivering breakfast.

This was normal, she often sat here to get ready and listened to her husband and one of her oldest friends nip wolfishly at each other's throats. _Does Arthur plan ahead for these morning banters?_ He'd be embarrassed if she asked. His face would flush red and he'd get busy with things. He was so lovable that way.

Though if he felt like his intelligence was called into question, he'd be insulted. She didn't want to hurt him. He sounded hurt now. His voice was loud and so charged with emotion that she felt the static prickling around her arms, raising fine hairs and goosebumps.

They were both loud. It sounded like arguing. Downstairs something big hit the floor and clattered, vibrating the room around her and making the stones buzz with tremors. It made her dizzy again and she put her hands out to hold her dresser in place, she didn't want it falling over and exacerbating the problem.

She should probably go down there, but she didn't want to. It was warm up here, and down there it was cold, and Merlin and Arthur were angry. But if she stayed up here they'd probably shake the whole castle down.

Getting to her feet was difficult. She was wearing thin purple slippers which blocked none of the numbing vibration, and it made descending the spiral stair even trickier. She had to brace both hands on the railing as she approached her bedroom. "Arthur!" she called. "Merlin!"

What had been static and vibration upstairs was a storm beneath. Wind whistled and thunder shook the room and Arthur and Merlin stood locked in a battle so ferocious they moved in staccato. Like flashes of lightning, there were snarled lips and accusing glares and curled postures cold and dark and terrifying.

Arthur - he had the same face as when he'd banished her. "You're a liar! You've lied to me, all this time!"

And Merlin, with the glare she'd barely caught as he'd shoved her clear of Morgana's sword. "You've used magic for your own benefit as often as you've condemned it. You, Arthur, are a _hypocrite."_

The _crack_ that rent the air overrode the thunder, and it echoed across Merlin's pale features as raw red welts far too similar to the shape of Arthur's fist. Gwen leapt to hold Arthur's arm back, full of worry and shock and fear for their friendship and fear of the love of her life and fear of _Merlin_ because even with his head still thrown to the side he was looking at Arthur under his eyelids with an expression full of— she choked.

Arthur snapped, "Have you ever had any _real_ friends?"

Merlin drew himself up. "Will was my friend," he said quietly.

"And I? What was I?"

Merlin sneered. "Just the thing carrying around my sword."

* * *

Horror's weight on her chest suffocated her awake, and she bent in two gasping for air.

She felt damp and hot underneath her clothes, and in the dark of early morn she scratched for the ends of the sheets, ultimately kicking them down her frame. _No, no, no_ — she thought, and from her right, Arthur stirred at the movement.

"Guinevere?" he mumbled, half-dreaming.

Her hand trembled, but she used it to smooth down his golden hair and calm him back to sleep. She didn't trust herself to speak. Nor could she risk him waking, and asking what had bothered her. How could she even start to explain?

Her father had forged Excalibur, and on the eve of the Black Knight's final battle she'd given it to Merlin. He's asked for her father's best sword… and she'd never seen it again. Lost in the aftermath, she'd thought. Though all this time it lay in a stone, somehow, impossibly. Waiting for Merlin to lead Arthur back to it, when Arthur had needed it most.

 _No_ , she thought _, no no no. Calm down; you're jumping to conclusions. One night terror and you're Morgana with her drapes on fire_.

That wasn't a good example.

Arthur's breaths were slow and deep, back in the oblivion of a peaceful rest. She tensed her legs, sliding her feet off from the high mattress and inching herself down onto the cold stone of the floor. At this hour, the smallest movements were a trumpet, and she flinched even at the rustle of her clothes.

The low embers of the hearth told her there wasn't long till dawn, so she'd certainly need a better outfit than her nightclothes if she followed through on her adrenaline-fueled endeavor. She needed to hurry, and she needed to be quiet.

One more glance over her shoulder, then the tips of her toes on the stair, and a simple dress covered in a thick cloak to bear against the morning chill. Voluminous and dark, because beneath its folds she planned to hide more than her identity. The cold steel of Arthur's sword, stolen from their bedside, would join her.

Once away from Arthur's potential notice, she sighed in relief. From here the cold castle and the empty streets would be easy to navigate. Truly, her suspicions caused her more trouble than the danger of her actions. She did not fear the guards - few patrolled the servant's small passageways.

This was a route she'd taken often, back in the days when she'd left Morgana's chambers much too late. She knew this small archway, and this dirt road tramped flat from traffic leading to the daily market, like she knew her own home. She knew how to dodge the crowd that would cluster around a new soul cloistered in these stocks, and who would fill these empty booths when day broke. Her family never had the money to purchase property so close to this street, but they were only one sharp turn away from the bustle, and everyone had known her father's skill.

Ironic, that. Because now all of Albion admired his work and did not know to credit him.

 _Stop it_ , she berated herself. Anyone can draw an artisan's mark. Though why copy her father's? It made more sense, however gut-swooping it was, that Merlin—

Stop it. Not right now. Not without proof. And not without asking Merlin first.

The curtains in her father's house were drawn aside. She could not make out the shapes of furniture or bodies, but the lack of fire proved Elyan had doused it when he'd left. He had patrol, thankfully. This was not a conversation she wanted to have with him either.

She entered, quickly placing Excalibur on the worktable and searching for the flint. She needed more light, and Elyan had moved things. That worried her, because she desperately needed him to have not thrown anything out. _There_ \- flint. With long-ingrained motions she set the fire alight, sending its flickering glow across the floors and throwing her shadow to the walls. Already her outline was not sharp. The sun would rise soon.

Elyan had filled the worktable with sharpening tools for his own weapons, and an array of knives small, large, and curved that he looked in the process of testing. Useless, all of it, for her purposes - but in a large trunk fit in the corner she found what most others would consider a form of junk. Thankfully, Elyan had a sentimental streak.

She'd always admired her father's handwriting. Never had there been letters, he hadn't known them, but his invented metrics were perfect and controlled and square. He had pages of scraps, some bound together with string, filled with cross-sections and handguards and a sickle shaped blade he'd been obsessed with for awhile. There were pages for farmers tools and knives and armor, pages and pages that she both loved and discarded in quick motions.

Because she was looking for what she hoped hadn't been repurposed, what had once been part of a set - what had been just as carefully planned and meticulously measured. Metal too, less intricate than the sword, but elegant and durable as he'd wanted it. When her fingers brushed its steel she felt its cold freeze through to her bones, then burn like she'd only just pulled it from the fire.

Paper scattered and lost itself in corners as she drew it loose. Her arm shook, trembled even, and she realized it was because her heart was racing. Then she drew Excalibur from Arthur's custom scabbard woven in golden filigree, and slot it home. Home into its true sheath - the one born alongside this sword - the wasted mate to a weapon she could never replicate.

Spirits, it fit perfectly.

 _What did you_ _ **do**_ _, Merlin?_

Voices. Sunlight creeping over the windowsill and marking the beginning of a day she did not yet feel prepared to face. Oh, she had to hurry. She had to get back before Arthur noticed she'd ran off with his sword.

But _— Ouch._ She'd fumbled replacing Excalibur into Arthur's scabbard, and the blade had sliced across the back of her hand. Luckily it was shallow enough not to bleed.

Ignoring the sting of it, she slid Excalibur back under her cloak then stuffed the mess she'd made back into the chest, with decorum quite unbefitting of the maid she'd once been. Though, the incoordination had less to do with haste and more to do with grey panic bubbling beneath her skin.

She should tell Arthur - but the Trial was tomorrow and he was stressed enough already. And how could these suspicions even be put into words?! _Oh, Merlin what did you DO?_

"Something stupid probably." He chuckled when she shrieked and stumbled. "Sorry, did I surprise you?"

"What are you… did I say that outloud?" Gwen hadn't risen from the floor yet, and her cheeks were flushed in a fluster.

"You were muttering to yourself."

Her hands fluttered at her sides. "But… what are you doing here?"

Well, the halfpenny in Excalibur's sheath had activated but he wasn't going to tell her that. He could still feel the cold pull in the coin's twin hiding in his boot, and it made his eyebrow quirk. Why was she hiding the scabbard? "You're hurt."

He moved forward and scanned the skin he could see, but he didn't catch the cut until he'd held his hand out to help her up. Concern for her shrunk, though, when she shied away from him. She rose to her feet with an uncharacteristic clumsiness, and he awkwardly put his once-extended hand into the safety of his pocket. "Sorry," she flushed again, "um."

Maybe this was a gift for Arthur, and she didn't want him to know?

"I don't know how to ask this."

"'What did I do', you mean?"

She paled, and he reached for her again, worried she was on the brink of a faint. This time he wasn't sure if she intentionally pulled away, or the knock at the door startled her.

"Pardon," the girl, who'd poked her head in, apologized. "Are you open?"

She had mousy brown hair pulled into a loose braid, and it hung over her shoulder to brush her collar bone. Looking at her reminded him of turnips, and after that connection the rest of how he knew her fell into place. This was Sefa, the Druid he'd met in Essetir just before Samhain's Riot. "Not a blacksmith, fortunately for Camelot," he grinned with self-deprecation. "Remember me?"

She worried her lip in confusion, but after a few seconds her expression opened with relief. "Merlin?"

"The one and only," he stepped back and revealed Gwen more fully. "And the Queen."

Sefa blanched and dropped into a curtsey. "Your majesty."

Gwen hardly acknowledged the bow, still focusing on him with an unnerving world of thought spinning behind her gaze. What was going on with her? Maybe he should get Sefa out of here so he could figure Gwen out. Before he could find an excuse, however, vexation swept Gwen in a wave strong enough to push her usually friendly features into an irritated scowl. She was furious with herself, but for what?

"I need to get back to the castle," she said hollowly. "Will you help her find what she's looking for?"

She had circled round him and slid past Sefa before she'd finished her sentence. _Of course_ died on his lips, tied up in his emerging frown. While he had her in sight he stored the image of her bowed head staring at her feet, the jerky way she stepped, and the way her hands clenched her skirts in white-knuckled fists… then she was gone.

 _What was she going to ask me?_ He thought first, followed closely by, _What does she think I did?_

And then, because he could never not fear this outcome—

 _What does she know?_

* * *

"It's uneven."

Forridel held a band of leather, stitched in strokes of dark thread, but shoved it aside to frown at Leon. "How can you say that? You've barely looked at it."

"You are many things, love, but you are not a seamstress."

Despite her frown she glowed, though that description came through the rose tint of his bias. But it was a bias earned from weeks worth of winter mornings spent like this - stretched out in her tiny cottage, his feet nearly brushing her skirts as she plodded away at something on her work table, the smell of boiling tea drifting from a crackling fire, and an ever growing curiosity at what she looked like without her tightly braided bun. She noticed him staring, and put down the belt she'd been inspecting. "You could spare a lie for my feelings."

The playful tilt of her hip drew him to standing, then pulled his hands to her waist. "I have no desire to face your wrath after you catch me lying."

She smirked, "Coward."

"I have a lot to lose," he leaned forward, hesitated as usual, then pressed a kiss to her temple. She laughed at him, also as usual, but he had learned to read her smiles, and this one was pleased.

"Look at you, Captain of the Guard, breaking the rules so early in the morn. Kissing a woman out of wedlock - it's scandalous."

"Well if that's how you feel," he teased, releasing her.

She winked coyly, "I _feel_ like taking advantage of you in a rule breaking mood." She sashayed closer, then stole the knife from his belt loop.

He had an urge to cover his manhood. "And how does my knife fit into this?"

"It doesn't," she sighed. "I've just ripped so many stitches that I've dulled my own blade. I'll never finish Iseldir's gift."

"He's not expecting one," he soothed.

"I owe him for protecting me for so many years… What?" She had moved back to her work table and started popping threads, but she'd caught a strange pinch in his expression and now her eyes skidded across his face curiously. "What's wrong? Is Iseldir in trouble?"

"Not that I know of," Leon sighed and ran a hand through his hair. The dark circles under his eyes were more apparent when he tilted his head back like this. "But there was a break-in last night. I've been chasing rumors. I'll have to tell the Sarrum and Arthur that Emrys had something to do with it."

"But the Sarrum will blame the Druids. He'll assume Emrys was acting through their information."

"I'm worried about that too."

Like it was obvious: "Then don't tell them."

"I won't lie to Arthur."

She huffed, ripped stitches more violently. "Then what? Do we have another witch hunt to look forward to?"

He stilled her with a hand on her wrist, then gently drew his knife out of her grip. She was glaring still at images he couldn't see, and he waited patiently for her anger to subside by reaching behind them and pulling her wood axe from the wall. "I used to see Gwen do this." He placed the sharp end so it lined with the needed row of stitches, the heavy weight easily keeping the leather in place.

"You're changing the subject."

He traced his finger along the edge of the axe, showing how it held the hide taut and provided a guideline to follow. "She'd mark her seams with weapons."

"What's the purpose in giving him a gift from Camelot if he's soon to be chased out of it?"

"No one will be chased out of Camelot. Not him, and not you." He placed a hand over her fist, and this time when he kissed her temple he did not hesitate. "I won't let it happen."

* * *

"Sorry for… interrupting…."

Sefa tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then drew her bottom lip between her teeth to pull at the chapped skin. Merlin had his own wealth of nervous tics as well, tics like word vomit and a feeling like he had eight arms and legs that he didn't know what to do with, and those nerves swarmed him now. They left him frozen with their warring desire to do _anything_.

"My father was just asking for a metal bowl…."

If he left now he may still be able to catch her. Though that might seem even more suspicious. And he was probably overreacting… right? He must be overreacting. Gwen had seemed a bit freaked, but he had surprised her. And she'd seemed pale but perhaps she was getting ill. She hadn't been eating well, according to the plates he often picked up from their rooms. Maybe Gaius knew something….

"You're probably busy, I'll just go."

"Ah no," it was iron willpower to draw his eyes from where Gwen had disappeared to where Sefa's shoulders had begun to curve. She was hunching in on herself, shielding her heart. He'd embarrassed her. "Wait, come in for a second."

He needed to stop freaking out, there was absolutely no way Gwen knew he had magic. She thought he'd done something, but whatever that something was, he could likely lie his way out of it. He took no pleasure in balancing his stack of lies even higher, but it was a necessary evil for the Purge Trial to go smoothly.

"I'm, uhm, glad you made it out from the riot." Sefa tried, in an attempt to break the suffocating silence. "I wasn't sure you had."

"Yes, you too," Merlin said stiffly. "Sorry, let me just put this fire out."

He bent, he was quite tall, and the fabric of his shirt caught on the muscles in his back. She'd thought him handsome the first time she'd met him, but he so obviously didn't want her around that she was too embarrassed to look. "Really, you don't need to help. I'll find my way." He probably preferred the interesting city girls, or the well-dressed women of court, and the thought made her pick at her fraying braid. She should have redone it this morning after waking up.

"No, it's—" he rose and instantly read her. It made him run a hand through his hair to stick up at even stranger angles, and he blinked a lot. Then he apologized again. Said he was just distracted and that he was well known for being scatterbrained. "I know Ruadan made it here. He ate with Arthur last night."

"He's my father," she said needlessly.

"Yes, I remembered," he replied, and embarrassed her all over again. _Don't make stupid comments_ , she berated herself. "Let's go outside. If someone else came by I don't know how we'd explain standing around here in the dark."

If she'd had more skill she would have tossed out an enticing joke, but instead she trailed after him, mortified. Thank spirits the market was picking up, she could hear chatter and the bang of merchants arranging their wares, and it gave her something else to fake focus on.

"What was it you needed?"

"A large bowl," she mimed the shape, partially just to have something to do with the appendages she sometimes called arms. Recently, they were doing an astonishing impersonation of dead fish. "He said preferably shoulder-width, and it didn't have to be deep, but it did have to be shiny."

"That's very specific," Merlin said. "Is it a gift?"

"Hard to say," she answered honestly. "He asks for strange things sometimes, and he usually doesn't tell me why." Largely because he was their tribe's leader, and he had a wealth of magic that had not passed on to her. By his logic, why tell her things that didn't concern her?

"I get why you checked with the blacksmith, but you'll have better luck with the Potterer. He's over this way." She considered herself lucky to have a guide; Camelot wasn't large relative to the forests she'd lived in, but it was certainly the biggest city she'd ever seen. Here near the market the streets were tightly wound, and it wasn't until she saw the red and blue flag of the Cobbler that she realized they'd retraced steps she'd previously taken.

Everything in Camelot was beautiful and new and distracting, and it was hard to get her bearings. Merlin must have noticed her stumble while gawking at a puppetmaster, because he pulled them aside. "Enjoy it," he said, "I remember how it felt the first day I walked through the gates."

In their little island of stillness she ogled the unexpected influx of people who knew what they wanted, and knew it with vibrance. They were servants in multicolored skirts with wicker baskets at their hips and travelers from far off with packs buckled to their backs and weapons tap-tapping at their legs. It smelt like dust and fruit and sounded with the raucous calls of merchants enticing customers and teasing friends. She'd heard stories about the beauty of Camelot but she'd never expected… _this_.

"So you like it?"

"It's _magnificent._ " All the roads led up to the white gleam of the old castle stone, an elegantly peaked design like a physical fantasy from a children's story.

He leaned down to point over her shoulder, and she followed the line of his arm to his short nails, then to what was a small wooden structure at the head of the market, hidden in the shadow of the castle. "Those are the stocks. I was in them my first week here, and many times since. I still flinch when I see tomatoes."

"So it's not all roses in paradise?"

He chuckled, and it felt good to have made him smile that way. "Paradise? Help me take care of Arthur for a few weeks and then tell me if you still feel that way."

That would be a dream, but it certainly wasn't a dream she'd ever have. "If only."

He noticed her wistfulness, and he tilted his head in added seriousness. "What's stopping you?"

 _My father. My culture._ When she noticed him still studying her, she snapped her attention to her hands and picked infinitesimally small specks of dirt from the lines of her palms. "I couldn't leave my father. He lost my mother when I was a baby and I'm all he has left."

"What happened?" Merlin said. He read between the lines as he pushed them back into the crowd, wearing a faraway frown. He answered his own question, muttering with a subtle anger and surety she hadn't expected, "The Purge happened."

Her father had only ever told her the story once, but he'd told it as if he was teaching her a lesson. He said the raid had come at night, when he'd been across their small village handling a dispute over how to weigh grain. They'd come with fire as their main weapon, and in the haze he'd reached through the collapsing window of their hut and pulled her from her crib. Her mother had already been buried alive behind the walls. He'd snuck back for her, but after three days with no way round the remaining guards, there had been no point in returning.

She felt removed from the heartache of it, but it explained the hurt that her father carried with him. It explained why he could be so bitter, and the dark cloak he wouldn't let her touch from their time with the High Priestess. "My father saw some of the worst parts of the Purge, and it's made him more careful. Please… remember that when he's speaking tomorrow."

"I'll remember, but Sefa," the Potterer's door was open and wafting the damp and musty smell of clay, and Merlin's arm barred her entry. "If he's planning something I need to know."

The accusation jolted through her, making her heart race. "I don't—"

"Many of the people who once hunted him are in Camelot." He wasn't aggressive with her, but he was serious, and it was unnerving. "And he's trying to get a message to someone, Sefa."

A message? How did that… oh, the bowl? "How did you know that?" But he already had a scrying bowl, though it was much smaller. Why buy larger one? Unless he needed it for—

"I've picked a few things up over the years," he said. For Merlin, it was obvious Sefa was panicking, but she didn't know him well enough to trust him. Perhaps in her eyes, he could turn her and her father in tonight and start the Purge Trial off with the smell of burning flesh.

"I love my father," she said quietly. "And he loves me and our tribe. I don't think he'd do anything to risk us."

"I believe you," he moved his arm back, still suspicious but knowing he couldn't push her any further than this. "I'm sorry I had to scare you."

Her eyes flicked away quickly and concentrated on the interior of the Potterer's hut. She shrugged. It ended with another curl of her shoulders and her arms crossing protectively over her stomach.

Guilt prevented him from leaving the conversation like this, so he added: "And if you change your mind, I'm sure Gwen would find a place on the castle staff for you."

"Thank you," she said to the doorway. "And thank you for showing me around." Her fingers picked self-consciously at the ties that held the top of her dress closed, but she dropped most of the protective shell she'd built. "I should really get to bartering though. My father must be expecting me."

"Of course," her comment brought back the weight of all the chores and problems that warred for his time as well, and he tried to filter for what was the most time critical, telling himself that _No_ , Gwen could wait. "It was nice seeing you, Sefa."

She looked up, and blushed. "You too, Merlin."

* * *

"You say such nice things, Leon, but you can't promise that."

"I can, Florridel, and I already have." She arched an eyebrow at him, a gesture he was normally enamoured with, but currently he did not let it sway him. "I wouldn't make you a false promise."

She rested a hand on his chest. "You are a good man, Leon." Then she used it to pat him fondly as she pushed him away. She pulled at edges of the leather from underneath the axe and muttered, "You couldn't have told me about this yesterday?"

He didn't answer. Talking to herself was a quirk of hers when she was working, and any response would fall on deaf ears. So he left her to it and went to face the day. Besides, Arthur and the Sarrum had likely eaten by now and would be waiting for him in the Council Chambers.

This was a room underneath the castle, less open to prying eyes and less prone to opulence. Lit scones provided the only light, which always gave the Council Chambers a distractedly ashy smell, and it's only entrance was a heavy wooden door whose thudding announced his presence better than any court crier. It startled Arthur from where he'd lost himself frowning at an empty corner.

"Leon," Arthur said, hinting where his thoughts had been moments before. "Any news on the merrow?"

He shook his head, sorry he had nothing better to provide. "No idea where they could be by now."

"Good."

Leon jolted. "Pardon?"

Arthur glanced at the door, crossed his arms, and turned his back on it. He gestured Leon closer, then spoke in a gruff whisper. "I let Merlin free it. Don't tell anyone."

 _Uh, what?_

A guard knocked on the door and Arthur loudly called for him to open it.

"The Sarrum, sire."

"Let him in," Arthur replied.

They stood shoulder to shoulder as the Amatan king strode in. He wore battle armor polished to perfection, and a forebodingly pleasant smile on his face. In greeting he nodded carefully to both men, and Arthur got to business. "Last night the merrow escaped."

"Certainly not without help," the Sarrum grinned. "Though I am not so surprised. Your father conquered this kingdom twice, and did not trust many. You've lost the castle twice and trust all, am I right?"

Arthur prickled, but kept his mouth shut. Before he could think of an appropriately diplomatic response, the Sarrum cut in with a laugh.

"Oh, I'm kidding, King Arthur. Of course I've seen the respect your people have for you. Tell me," he moved forward and clapped an unwelcome hand to Leon's arm, "Do you have any leads?"

"As to where the merrow is now, we have no tracks to follow," Leon replied, and Arthur thought to praise, or perhaps interrogate, Merlin on his tremendous smuggling skills. "Caridoc described an old man with a long beard and a red robe." _A costume?_ "He appeared from air in the merrow's cell, and after knocking Caridoc out must have left in the same manner. That describes precisely how I witnessed Dragoon traveling in the forest two seasons ago."

Arthur felt his mind go blank, roar like a wind through a cave, then stutter over the same useless thought. "Dragoon is Emrys," his mouth said with little direction from his brain.

"Indeed?" The Sarrum said. "It seems Emrys has got a bad habit of freeing dangerous prisoners."

This made _no_ sense. How could letting _Merlin_ free the creature have resulted in _Emrys_ breaking into his dungeon?!

"So," the Sarrum said sprightly. "Any plans on recapture? I have brought a squad of my warriors. The best in Amata. Believe me, they aren't easily beat."

"What are you proposing?" Leon said. "We have no trail to follow. They are likely long gone."

"Certainly not. Tell me, how does Emrys know the schedule and layout of your castle so well?"

 _At the most_ , Arthur thought angrily, _I have a spy, but,_ "I am not hiding Emrys in this castle, which I clearly explained last night. Don't insinuate as much again."

The Sarrum held his hands up in surrender. "Just a question, King Arthur. I only meant that he has likely already arrived for the Purge Trial, which tells me the creature is here somewhere, hidden with Emrys." He shrugged. "I only want my property back. I'm owed that much, aren't I?"

"We are absolutely not storming through the visiting Druids on the eve of this Trial," Leon stated firmly.

"Agreed," Arthur continued, unfortunately only now whirring on the idea that Emrys had appeared in the same cell as the merrow. How many people had known its whereabouts, _precisely?_ Five… at most ten? "Emrys will show himself tomorrow. Better not to raise tensions." He needed time to get to the bottom of this.

That peaceful solution dropped the pleasantry from the Sarrum's expression, and without the consistent half smile his cheeks hollowed, gaunt in the firelight. "So, in this kingdom you allow thieves one full day to walk free?"

"This is a delicate situation," Arthur supplanted. "You should understand. You stood right alongside my father when he set this into motion."

"Only in a few odd battles," the Sarrum corrected tersely. He drew himself up in a show of strength, and Arthur had an urge to clench his own fists in retaliation. "In good will and in honor of your father I defer to your opinion, but I will not stand completely idle. The merrow is my property, and I will not allow Emrys to believe he has free reign to do what he wills to me."

The Sarrum nodded sharply in a farcical farewell, waited for Arthur's answering, and with their brittle relation now wrapped in false decorum, he and his shiny armor strode swiftly away.

The door closed loudly behind him, and Arthur turned to Leon with an embittered grimace.

"Don't let any of his men travel alone."

* * *

As hyperaware as Merlin's goodbye grin had left her, Sefa expected better from herself than a shriek when she was shocked into sensibility.

It was literal - the shock. A warm hand had touched at her lower back, and she and the hand had both leapt apart at the miniature lightning that zipped between them.

"Ugh," the owner said, "I hope that isn't proof that lovesickness is catching."

"Sorry," Sefa jumped to apologize, "I was just—"

"Blocking my daylight with your overly large forehead?" He gestured inside. "Well, hurry up. Unless you're planning on using that gargantuan brow to reflect light into my shop."

 _What a little monster._

That opinion didn't improve throughout her time finding the shiniest clay platter available, largely because he'd flustered her into parting with _three_ farthings. She didn't plan to pass that fact to her father - she'd rather weave tales of street thieves or paid guides.

Some of that fear of disappointment pushed her to return quickly home, or well, what home was while in Camelot. The Mighty Quill's average amenities were far beyond what they could normally afford, and in the last stretch before its double doors she tried to beat the dust from her skirts and tuck her flyaway hair presentably behind her ears.

She held the plate tight to her chest, hoping her body curled about it would make it invisible, and walked in. She hugged the wall until she reached the back hallway. Her father's door was four from the rear, and she stepped carefully over warped wood, counting steps and willing no one to corner her.

At the end of the hallway was one small square of a window, and the main road that led up to the arena stretched beyond. It was busy with foot traffic that also did not care to look at her, but she still had an urge to tuck the plate half behind her back. The closer she took this bowl the more it felt like an illegal scrying artifact, and the more she quailed at aiding a crime planned by both her father and Morgana.

Muffled voices - and her hand paused at the doorknob.

Quietly, she breathed in. She shouldn't listen. But _'many of the people who once hunted him_ ' are here in Camelot, and as much as she wanted to believe he'd never —

"Stop with the riddles, Iseldir. I've had to dodge too many questions about him."

That was her father. He sounded irritated.

"The answers are plain if you study the prophecies."

And that must be Iseldir - the Druid leader she'd only met from afar.

"This is why I'm asking you. I'd rather avoid a duplication of efforts."

"What do you gain by knowing?" Iseldir placated. "An audience before the trial?"

"That would only be fair. You've had a monopoly on his council for years." He was jealous, and he hated being talked down to. "Aithusa brings our people to your feet."

"Ah, so you know of Aithusa?"

A huff. "Belatedly."

He paused, but Iseldir remained steadfastly pleasant. "You'll be happy to hear she's much healed, then. She's made a full recovery."

Goosebumps rose on her skin and the fine hairs of her arms prickled before she registered the new sounds. Boots - lots of them - stomping confidently around the inn's foyer. She'd spent a lifetime half-alert and waiting for them, and they were coming for her now.

Her fingers went white round the edges of the bowl. "Oh spirits," she mewled hoarsely. "Father - Ahh!"

Long fingers curled around her bicep and yanked her backwards. _Don't touch me_ , she cringed and pulled feebly to be freed. In retaliation moist breath wafted over her cheek, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see the glee radiating through his beady little eyes.

"Hallo there, lass. Were you warning your father about me?"

Sefa tucked her lips into her mouth, wanting the least amount of his breath to touch her.

"Why, dearie? What have you got to hide?"

* * *

Despite agreeing to his orders, Leon remained with a thoughtful seriousness that had steadily morphed into a curious stare. "Sire," he started haltingly, "you said Merlin had a hand in this?"

He rushed to explain. "It must have been a coincidence."

Leon nodded firmly, easily shaking off the puzzlement in favor of trust. Arthur watched him transition into single-minded focus to protect the peace, and it put a sheen of nausea through his stomach.

So Arthur left, too. His feet were numb, and the sound of them on the stone was so far from the ringing in his ears that he felt removed from his body. He took a right down the hall.

He'd trusted many people. His father, his wife, his knights. But his best friend - he'd trusted him _more._ More than the way he'd trusted him with his fear, his pain, or his life. He trusted Merlin to carry him, and Camelot, in those times he'd lost all will. Merlin had already proved he would.

But plans had leaked somehow from Merlin to Emrys, and….

In the East Tower the main stairwell was empty, and slowly he began to climb.

Plans had leaked, and it only made sense when he thought more about it. It had been Merlin who'd said Gaius knew a hermit that could heal, Merlin who he'd told both times he'd needed Dragoon. Merlin had relayed information to Emrys, and that _hurt._

His muscles were rigid, wired, and vibrating. His heartbeat pressed a heat to his skin and made him wonder if someone had reached within his ribcage and tried to wrench it wider. It made his chest tight, his breaths scorching, his vision narrow. It felt like dying.

Perhaps that's why they called it being stabbed in the back.

* * *

"I'm not hiding anything," she whispered.

The Sarrum released her, whistled. It was sharp, high-pitched, and it brought five men round the bend of the hallway. If she could have shrunk into a crack in the walls, she would have.

"Well," he said with a grin, "aren't you going to invite me in?"

She shook. _Please let them not be doing anything illegal_. "Father?"

She reached slowly for the knob, again listening intently for muffled voices, and unsure whether they had gone silent or if she had no chance of hearing anything over the terrorist king's roaring smugness. The Sarrum tore the door out of her hands.

 _Alone_ \- her father was alone. He was in the process of standing up, glare well in place, but not surprised. She'd bought him enough time to hide what he'd needed, and she sighed with relief. Then her father reached out and jerked her behind him.

To Ruadan, the sight of his daughter a handspan away from a man who'd tortured both the High Priestess and her dragon was terrifying. He reacted without thinking, and he played his hand shamefully plain.

The Sarrum's eyes traced the path Sefa had swung through, and he smirked. "I'm looking for my prisoner. He's with Emrys. Have you seen either?" But the way his fingers ghosted his sword, the way his eyes traced Sefa's silhouette, it screamed that the Sarrum was here to make a completely different statement.

"No."

He was here to tell them that no matter what trial, or boy-king, or prophesied savior, he had power over them. He could have killed Sefa, if he'd wanted to.

"I'd like to check under the bed, for diligency's sake."

Ruadan settled into the well of his magic, preparing. He didn't care what banality the Sarrum was here for, he wasn't going to let him do it.

But the Sarrum's men looked down the hallway, distracted, and a bodiless voice said, "Well this is a party," before a red-cloaked knight swept into view. "What's the occasion?"

"You're not aware?" The Sarrum asked drily.

"Hide-and-go-seek, right?" The knight poked his head in. "Emrys isn't here. He's good at this game, isn't he?"

The Sarrum's eyes flicked up and down the knight, then back to them. "Indeed," he grinned. "Until next time, Ruadan."

The knight reached forward, grabbed the knob, and swung the door shut with a farewell salute.

In the void they left, Ruadan wasn't certain what triggered his fury - the veiled threats of a monster, or the pitying defense of a swordsman. They'd both had no fear at the might of his magic.

They'd underestimated a sorcerer - but, he reminded himself, they'd soon regret that conceit.

* * *

"Gaius?"

Gwen stepped quickly over a fallen broom and into the Physician's Chambers. The fire was low and a tousled cot was pushed against the wall under a window. He must have stepped out with the patient.

 _Good_ , because she'd seen Merlin come this way, laden with Arthur's nicer clothes, and she hadn't passed him on the servant's stair. He had to be here, somewhere, washing them in the tub. Though Merlin wasn't in any of the corners, nor were Arthur's clothes in sight. Maybe she'd guessed wrong.

But… and she noticed then when she'd stopped moving, there was a faint sound of a rhythmic whooshing. Was it coming from the window? No… she tilted her head. It had to be the sound of water sloshing. And when she followed the noises, knew it to be coming from Merlin's closed bedroom door.

She got a little shaky. This was it. She was going to ask him, and there would be no one to interrupt them.

Up the stairs she went, dodging candles and piles of books while holding carefully to the old wooden banister that slid roughly under hand. The higher she went the more dust motes filtered through the dwindling light, parting before her like an unseen crowd come to gawk. Her wake pulled them from pegs on the yellowed walls that held artifacts, satchels, and on the last hook Merlin's jacket which seemed to talk to her: _You can walk away right now, and no one will ever know._

But no, she would not back out. She yanked her skirt higher, tighter in her fist, twisting. Then she walked the landing, called his name, opened his door. Forgot to breathe.

No. No — _No, not possible_ —

She jerked away, slammed the door, stumbled back. _Oh gods, when? For how long?_

 _Always_?

She trembled, her heart was a stab of ice, and her legs seized. She slipped, landed hard on her hip and caught herself on her palms. It wove a tingling through her like needles, jabbing her armpits and sending sweat prickling over her skin, and she scrambled for the railing.

It was her support as she failed to stand, she just wanted _out_ —

 _How could he DO this to them?_

Floor falling away - she was dizzy. Can't breathe. _Breathe, you're forgetting to breathe_ ; the panic squeezing her into a little ball, falling half onto the cot, and _oh gods, Merlin, WHY_.

The door to the East Tower opened, and in its entry stood her husband. He was upset, hurt, and her skirt was torn over her left knee. She was going to have to patch that. "Guinevere?"

Then, from his room, impossibly, implausibly, Merlin emerged. He peered over the railing and looked utterly shocked to see them both waiting for him. "Arthur?"

"I need to talk to you," Arthur said, throat bobbing. "Come down here."

Merlin obeyed, and at the bottom of the stair he glanced her way and she caught his wariness. "What's wrong, Arthur?"

Arthur sucked in a deep breath, eyebrows tilting in confusion, "Do you have something to tell me?"

"What?"

A half-smile, as if Arthur already didn't believe what he'd walked here to say. "Where have you been? You weren't here last evening, and I have to hear from Leon today that Emrys broke out the creature…" he paused, and his eyes shifted over Merlin's face, taking in Merlin's grimace, and the regret that grew there.

Gwen watched Arthur's body sag, his face slackening as his sparking hope faded. The sweat on her skin began to dry, and it left her cold and clammy.

"Do I have something to tell you?" Merlin sighed, mouth twisting. "Yes." He shuddered like he was physically in pain. "I am going to tell you everything," and while he spoke Arthur's face tightened, "but I am going to do it on my own terms."

It was horror Arthur was feeling; Gwen recognized it. How could what they'd guessed be even partially true? They'd never known him.

"Your _terms?"_ Arthur said quietly. "What makes you think you're entitled to _terms?"_

Merlin closed his eyes, wounded. "You're my best friend. Your trust means so much to me, but I am not going to change my mind."

This was treason, and she felt ill.

"Tomorrow, during the trial," Arthur's voice shook, "are you going to stand with him? With Emrys?" He grew louder, "Am I going to have to watch you across the aisle, defending him?"

He was earnest, pleading. Willing them to understand but only worsening the betrayal. "I won't be there. Tomorrow, it can only be Emrys _._ "

Her stomach heaved, nausea overtook her, and the hot burn of vomit surged up her throat.

Merlin turned to her in alarm. "Gwen, are you—"

 _No,_ she thought _, no, Emrys, I'm not well._

And then she puked, all over the floor.

* * *

 _Kings and Queens and Vagabonds sung by Ellem_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) The Black Knight was the episode where Merlin had help from Kilgharrah to create Excalibur, but was forced to hide if after in the lake, so it wouldn't fall into anyone other than Arthur's hands. Thanks to Dmarie1184 for clarifying that for me.

 **Author's Note:**

Thanks so much to all you awesome reviewers and the incredible Femme Fatale that is Jewelsmg, Dmarie1184, and Linorien. I am so grateful for all their last minute help, and in the case of Linorien, _literally_ last minute. Usually this is where I say I'll be sending PMs shortly, but I'm posting this hours before my flight out of the country. I'm hiking to Everest Base Camp! No internet for a month! Really wanted to get this out before I left, and say that I will miss and be thinking of you all while I'm out there writing about Camelot in absolutely gorgeous scenery.

 **Next Time:** The Purge Trial.


	18. Eve

**—**

 **Eve  
** _Of the Ides of March_

On his first day as manservant, Merlin had swaggered confidently through his chores. He'd been eager to prove he could do this job despite how ill-prepared he was for it, and then, after a good scrubbing, he'd held up Arthur's tunic and seen daylight through a fresh pair of holes. What a punch in the gut that had been.

He felt similar now. He'd woven the threads of his life with increasing rapidity and expected perfection, blinded by pride until he stood staring through a set of holes.

It felt a bit like tunnel-vision. All he could see was Gwen's hunched figure in the low evening light, though intellectually he knew she sat on the sickbed near the window, and that the Physician's chambers stretched around her to end on he and Arthur.

Merlin moved to put his hand on the cleft between her shuddering shoulder blades, but Arthur got in his way. She'd screwed her mouth up tight and turned her face away from the vomit, but she gagged again with a deep, groaning sound almost like a sob.

Arthur gripped her upper arm loosely, and he said "Get her some water."

Merlin backed away from them both and turned unseeing to the room. Rationally he knew there was a clay pot half filled, and cups on the table. He had a bin of dirty rags and a bucket. He had motions to go through but they felt echoed by a pervading _This isn't fixable, there's nothing I can do._ Like staring through those dual holes, he had nothing left but to wait for Arthur's judgement.

So in that hyphen of time, he cleaned. Repetitiously his rag made circles on the stone floor, and he sat quiet and subdued, listening to Gwen's ragged breaths. From the ground he could see her slippered feet hanging from the cot, and the wrinkled robin's egg blue of her pleated skirt. She was curled slightly, absently holding the cup of water, and leaning her head against Arthur's arm. Arthur stood a little behind, where Merlin couldn't see, but he could feel his eyes.

He dropped the rag into the bucket and stood with his head lowered. The floor was clean now, and drying quickly. He pushed the makeshift mop bucket into a corner, and risked a glance over his shoulder.

Arthur caught him, and his mouth pinched with something sour as he stared from beneath his brow, the blue piercing like shards of ice. "What did you mean you won't be there tomorrow?" He asked quietly. "Can't bear to see me arguing with your old friend Emrys?"

Merlin flinched, but he accepted the hit. Arthur was not striking out blindly, but showing a measure of how deeply he'd been hurt.

"I thought you were the bravest man I knew, but today I find that you're a coward. A coward who's lied to me, and… how long have you been lying to me?" Arthur rasped, almost pleading, but with no denial forthcoming his anger grew. "Years? Almost all the years I've known you. My closest friend. What a fool you've made of me!"

His tugged at his hair, raking at the blonde. "How could you work against me like this? I would never _ever_ betray you!"

He put a shaking arm around Gwen, panting, reigning in his emotions until his voice was tight and controlled. "I would stand next to you against any accusation… and I trusted you to do the same. But Emrys - the Purge - the Druids! What are they to you? I don't understand. Just… please, help me understand."

For all the times Merlin had lain awake at night wondering what stories he'd tell, and where he'd start, he had nothing to say. How did he put to words what freedom meant to him? "They are…" This was hard. He couldn't defend magic unconditionally tomorrow if he admitted the truth now. He wasn't supposed to have to choose like this. "They are… me. Who I'm supposed to be."

 _"_ _What does that mean?"_ Arthur railed. "Are you a Druid? Why won't you just explain yourself! _"_

"Arthur," he choked, but Gwen's hand on Arthur's arm did more than he could have. Her brown fingers squeezed gently until he turned to look at her, and she shook her head slowly.

"Leave it for tonight," she said hoarsely. "He said he'd explain tomorrow."

"I will," Merlin reiterated, trying to push the sincerity from his heart into his words. He wasn't sure it did any good. Arthur had turned away, body rigid, eyes closed, nostrils flaring.

"Fine," he muttered. They brushed past him on their way out, and it tingled down his arm and throbbed like a bruise. Their steps rang slow and measured as if synchronizing with a death knell, and then - a scraping sound. Merlin turned towards it. It was Arthur's hand on the knob, dragging the door after him, but he'd paused halfway.

His head tilted so he spoke over his shoulder, and Merlin wondered if this was worth it. Maybe he'd made the wrong choice. He could say something now, and bring them back.

But Arthur's final words proved he was already far too late.

"I can't stand to look at you, so I'm glad you won't be there."

* * *

The door shut firmly behind them, and a wave of disorientation washed over Merlin. Was it possible to have your destiny physically severed? Because the more melodramatic parts of him certainly felt adrift.

What to even do now? His chores? They seemed so pointless and small.

But they were something compared to nothing, so he moved up the stairs and pushed open the door to his room. A puddle of water had collected on the other side, and as the door moved through it, ripples splashed against his boots. The bucket of soapy water had spilled, and it, the washboard, and Arthur's clothes for tomorrow were strewn all over the floor. Each item gave off a faint glow of gold, remnants of the simple laundry spell he'd cast while dipping away to visit Gilli. It had instantly shattered when he'd heard Arthur's voice calling.

He bent, pinched the tunic between his fingers and raised the dripping mass from the ground. It was heavy with water, and thick enough that he had little hope of it drying fully by morning. He'd have to sleep in shifts so that he could rotate all the clothes near the fire.

He curled his long fingers into the shirt and squeezed, the water dripping over his knuckles as he stood, and he took a step towards the bucket. By the second step he'd picked up speed, and by the third, he'd kicked it solidly across the room.

Because _Fie_ on this. He had all this power and he wasn't allowed to use it? Why? Because of Uther and his childish inability to accept blame? Because it made other people more comfortable? This was _stupid_ and _unfair_ and he was _sick of it._

He swung a hand and the water from the floor rose in a wave and collided with the bucket that he sent flipping to catch it. Then he simply _pushed_ , let his magic out in a torrent and let his _want_ drive it. The clothes rung themselves out, the trousers resuming their scrubbing against the washing board, and soap beginning to froth, bubble over, and float. It was a half-controlled chaos, but it was still too tame.

So, he threw open the curtains in the main room and tossed the contents of the mop bucket onto the courtyard below. He spun water from magic to refill it and flapped Arthur's red cloak through the air so quickly it rained droplets across the entire chamber. It was his whims now driving the tornado, and magic ripped the sickbed sheets into ghostly billows to join the fray. He crooked a finger and the fire roared higher, incinerating the wooden logs and charcoal ash instantly, but twisting with its own strength.

Then the door clicked, and Gaius stood framed in the entryway. He was flushed from his jog up the stair and he leaned heavily on the doorknob, but those frailties did not prevent his roar of indignation. _"Merlin!"_

Standing darkly at the top of the landing, Merlin lingered while the chaos continued unhindered. Gaius cursed, and shut the door tightly behind himself, barring it.

"What are you thinking!?" He yelled. "Stop this! You're risking everything we've worked for."

Merlin lowered his arm. It only slowed the movements, but did not stop them. "Arthur thinks I'm allied with Emrys against him and Camelot. And maybe I am. That's the sort of line being magic draws in the sand, doesn't it?"

Gaius was furious. "The fight got close to your heart, so you're throwing a _tantrum?_ "

Merlin twitched and Arthur's tunic and cloak flung themselves at the fireplace, slamming into the darkened wood above and held in place by zinging iron nails that bent nearly in two from the hammering force. "Can you send those to his room in the morning?" He practically spat, "He doesn't want to see me."

"Send someone yourself, Merlin."

"He doesn't want anything to do with me!"

Gaius shook his head. "You're underestimating him. It's a pity I have to tell you that."

"I'll tell you what's a pity: I've worked for years for a fraction of what the prophecies have promised. Every time I've gotten my hopes up, they've been struck down lower than before. The Purge never ended," he grimaced. "Instead, it became a way of life. I was naive to think I could upend it. I've known them longer than anyone and they were sickened by me. And they don't even know a grain of the truth!"

"Then be patient. They'll—"

"No!" Merlin cried, voice cracking. " _I'm tired of hiding._ "

Gaius shoved off the beam he'd placed on the door, and it fell with a heavy clatter despite the racket around them. "Leave then. Go show everyone who you are." He glared, daring him. "I've hid longer than you've been alive. I lost my fiance, my dearest friends, and my disciples. I've lost my credibility with the magical community. You go out there now, and you make all of that worth nothing." His voice was deadly quiet now. "But it's your decision."

Merlin grimaced. "And how should I start listing my own losses? Alphabetically?"

Gaius raged, "You are being a thick-headed fool! I can't even speak to you!"

He snorted, tromping down the stairs. "Go join the club."

He waved, and the rest of the laundry flew to tack itself near the fireplace. It made a steady _thump, thump, thump_ underneath the whistling of dissipating water, and both men stared each other down; a battle of obstinance which Gaius lost. He could not bear to see Merlin throw everything away.

"Everyone is counting on you to present the atrocities of the Purge," he begged. "Once they're in the light, Arthur won't be eager to return to them."

"Arthur _knows_ the Purge was a terrible time. It hasn't changed his mind beyond provisional amnesty."

"The Druids—"

"Can tell their own tales," Merlin swiftly cut off.

Gaius sagged as Merlin reached him. "So this is where you stop then? Here is where you abandon us all?"

"How could you believe I'd do that?"

Gaius flushed. "You aren't acting like yourself!"

"This anger is just as much a part of me as any other idiot smile." He shook Gaius slightly. "Why aren't _you_ angry? Don't you understand that every argument we planned will be wasted tomorrow? He hates me for _knowing_ Emrys; Emrys could recite every bloody battle from the Purge and _maybe_ Arthur would pay some respects to the Druids in retribution. Our freedom doesn't have a chance. Magic—"

He paused, and his expression opened.

"The Purge has already ruined magic." His words sped up in a strange excitement, "Albion is unbalanced. Magic has been destroyed and the proof is right in front of us!"

"Merl—"

His hands tightened as if to shake him again, but then he backed away. "I know what I need to do."

Then Gaius blinked, and Merlin had gone.

* * *

The instant his boots touch the forest's floor his skin sags ashen and old, his hair lengthens to wispy, and he readies himself for the argument sure to come. His nipples droop and his hips widen, and about him his tunic becomes the black of the Dolma's tattered robe.

His feet know the path, and magic is still spinning around him as he approaches Morgana's clearing. She's there, of course, and he sees her silhouette in the light of the fire. Her thick hair is swung over her shoulder in a wave of wet curls, her hand holds a roughly carved wooden comb, and she's methodically working her way up from the ends.

She's surprised to see the Dolma, but a tangled knot divides her attention until the old witch is almost in front of her.

The Dolma leaves no space for pleasantries. "I need some information out of you."

This isn't the first time the Dolma has blown in all worked up about one of her many mysteries, and Morgana is more amused than annoyed. She's always enjoyed poking at sleeping dragons.

"So finally you'll allow me to teach you dark magic?" She grins, and as the Dolma prepares to squawk 'no', she squeezes her hand into a fist and the fire blips out.

After a beat her raspy voice comes from the darkness. "How witty of you."

"I thought so too," she releases her hold and the flames leap. "Are you going to sit down, or are you going to stand and glare?"

"Are you going to make jokes, or are you going to listen to me?" The Dolma says, but joins her on the log.

Morgana tilts so their knees brush and smiles coyly. "I thought you were here to listen to _me_?"

The Dolma makes a face. "You're in a strangely good mood."

"And you're in a boring one."

"Do you have any idea what's going on in Camelot tomorrow?"

"Enlighten me," she rolls her eyes.

The Dolma kneads at her forehead then drops the shocker, "Arthur is putting the Purge on trial."

Her heart skips a beat and lands in her throat, then comes right out of her lips. "He's thinking about lifting the ban!"

"Unlikely," the Dolma reminds bitterly. "But I will be speaking. I have a theory that more than just the Druids were permanently ruined by the Purge, but I don't have time to gather all the facts."

What a strange thing to say. How is she supposed to help with that? There's only one person she could interview from here, and she isn't even sure he'd answer.

"I've seen history through magic," the Dolma further explains, "I lived the Battle of Arderydd and witnessed Uther and the Sarrum rip magic out of reality. I need to know what other ways they upset the balance. Then I can find a way to prove it." She quirks a brow. "You're smiling."

Why, yes, she is. "You're refreshing. I spent years thinking only the _impotent_ magic-users were left."

"So you'll help me?"

She shrugs and starts to braid her drying hair. "I don't see how I could possibly."

"Show me what happened during the Purge, from the very beginning."

She snorts. "Impossible."

But the corners of her mouth dip down, and the Dolma catches that hesitance. She has a steady look that screams, _Is it_? And her old hand snaps forward and catches Morgana's wrist. "I have another theory, but this one is about you."

She snatches her arm back, "I don't want to hear your fantasies about me."

"I think that Morgause helped trigger your Sight. I think you must have seen the past along with the future." Her voice is a quiet ferocity. "I think the Purge destroyed you just like it destroys everything else."

"I…" Morgana chokes, "I _chose_ this path."

A dry chuckle escapes her. "I used to think magic chose us. But you're right," she says. "We've chosen magic."

* * *

An uncanny familiarity buzzes through her, the ache of it so powerful she second-guesses the burning heat of the fire, the velvety darkness of the clearing, the push and pull of the Dolma's gaze. It's a dream half-remembered and… "Have we had this conversation before?"

"Maybe we're doomed to repeat it," the witch laughs wryly. Then she holds her palm out between them. "Maybe we'll move in circles until we finally change something."

Almost any change at this point would benefit her. That thought makes her reach forward, but the witch's subtle taunting stays her hand. "The Sight is a gift, and the goddess sends me visions when I need them."

"Oh, I didn't catch that the first time," the Dolma mocks. "When you said there were only impotent magic-users left, you included _yourself._ "

"Annoying crone," she mutters, "one day I'll teach you to respect the title of High Priestess." But she slides her hand through the Dolma's, and lets the frail fingers grip hers with a surge of magic that shocks and blinds her. The Dolma's presence slides incredibly close, Morgana's vision goes bright white, and when she opens her eyes, golden vines are extending from her body and whipping in the air.

Their magic pushes them out and out, miles into the sky, around trees and deep into the ground, and then she feels the first yank. It snaps her head back and her stomach lurches. Her visions are usually chaotic, moments of facts strewn throughout jagged frames of possibility, but this time she's further sickened by a sensation of rapid flipping, like she's caught in the pages of a book.

She's on a beach, a turret, a graveyard, the sun whirls from morning to midnight, and she can sense the Dolma's mind turning the pages as she's pulled along in her draft. It's a struggle to stand, and an even greater one to not lose herself in the Dolma's singular focus, or the chaotic images around her. She's worried that if she focuses on one detail too long, the Dolma may move on without her and she'd never find her way back to the present.

So through squinted eyes she glimpses a royal chamber, a thin queen, and a beautiful witch with her eyes pointed at the heavens. Above them, in a storm that is both beautiful and impossible, is a tornado of gold.

History stutters, but it moves straighter. It feels wider. The Dolma is reeling them on, and Morgana presses her shoulder against the witch. The more supported she is, the stabler she feels.

Later they're standing in sticky blood that congeals on the base of her boots. The sun is rising over a red hill, and mercenaries are looting corpses. The Sarrum is cutting the head off someone that must have been important. Uther is searching the dead for one face in particular. By then, the Dolma is leaning on her. Perhaps they're leaning on each other.

* * *

Nimueh's lipstick spreads across the back of her hand, a gummy reminder of her terror.

It curls in her empty stomach and makes her feel jittery and sick. The rickety sway of the wagon doesn't help, but she prefers this over teleporting with the child in tow. It's five days now since their loss in Arderydd, and her magic still recovers painfully slow. She feels weak and vulnerable, but when she reaches for Albion's magic she senses its new chaos, and it terrifies her all over again.

She's scared of what would happen if Camelot's guards find the noblemen bodies behind her, or of how many she'd have to fight if they catch up to her stolen wagon. She's especially worried of how they could torture her if one magic-devouring Eancanah slipped past her defenses.

The road is beginning to narrow, anyway. She slips off the bench and leads the horse and cargo as far into the treeline as she can. It's not very hidden at all, but she can hope for bandits.

The girl is blinking blearily by now, and from her huddle of blankets her cherub face rises, framed by flaxen hair and hung with a troubled smile. "What's happening?"

"We're close," Nimueh gestures the young girl onto the horse, which she then unhitches and leads further into the forest. "Can you smell it?"

"Smell what?"

"You'll see."

It's a tough half-hour to the coast of the lake, but when she sees the blue through the trees she almost weeps. They'll be safe there, at least. Uther and his goons wouldn't dare lay siege to the Isle of the Blessed.

They wait impatiently as a Blood Guard rows a thin boat towards them in the growing eve, and with no way to use the horse now, she takes it behind some trees and with a spell breaks its neck.

They're halfway across the lake when the child's face lights up. "It smells like my mother's perfume!"

Nimueh laughs. "Vivienne always smelt of magic."

At this distance it's obvious the castle is untouched by the war, and she lets the shadow of the flying turrets wash away her worry. The whole island pulses with possibility and life, and as they land within the stone walls, it rejuvenates her. But it does more for the girl. For the first time since Nimueh has met Morgause, the child is alight. She gushes about the towering arches - higher than any palace's, bows to every guard and priestess they pass, and her excitement catches. Nimueh is grinning near ear-to-ear when they finally arrive at the Rowan Tree.

The ancient plant is bulbous and twisted, weighed down by plump red berries, and its branches stretch wide across the central courtyard. At its base is the Crone, a hunched old woman nearly as brown as the tree itself and with eyes as white as the moon.

She's cross-legged with the Rowan Staff in her lap, and in her left and right hands, the Horn of Cathbhadh and the Cup of Life. She's rasping words in the Old Religion, praying to the Triple Goddess, tears running down her face.

Morgause falters for the first time and hides behind Nimueh's legs. The Crone turns her sightless eyes towards them and begs them closer.

When they're in range, the Crone whispers. "He'll find you even here, Nimueh. He would chase you to the ends of the sea."

Her heart plummets. "Then I'll fight."

The Crone shakes her head, and pushes the Cup of Life into her arms. "Protect it." The golden metal is warm against Nimueh's skin, but it makes her shiver. She's never before had the right to even touch it.

"If Uther comes, he'll bring Eancanah. They tore through our ranks in minutes."

"Deathless creatures," the Crone croaks. "They'll come like a dark wave to our shores, and they'll be upon us before we know to look." She smiles and reaches out to pet Morgause's hair. "You've brought me a Maiden."

Frustration is making her eyes blurry. "Vivienne's daughter." She blinks tears away. "Let me warn the Blood Guard, and you must tell the Priestesses. If we are prepared, we can defend ourselves."

The Crone ignores her, instead pushing the Rowan Staff into Morgause's small hands. The sculpted wood dwarfs her. "Keep it safe, my child."

Then she raises the Horn to her lips and blows. Simultaneously a shriek echoes over the stones and curdles the blood in Nimueh's veins. _Oh goddess_ , she thinks, _so soon?_

The Crone's focus moves to the side, and she forces a welcoming smile on her withered face. Nimueh can't make anything out of the emptiness, but the Crone softly speaks to it anyway. "You are the last of our kind. It is up to you to right the wrongs done to us by Uther Pendragon."

Then a black blur drops from the tree. It's on the Crone's face, but by the time Nimueh thinks a spell and little Morgause swings the staff, the Crone's pupils are an average brown and her soul is dead.

There's a peaceful smile on the old woman's face. The shock had killed her, and little red droplets of blood bead up along her forehead and cheeks, where the slug's teeth had suckered into her.

Morgause starts to cry.

Tears have already burned their way out of Nimueh, and she wipes them away with the back of her hand. She doesn't realize that she's smearing old lipstick across her cheeks.

She hears her sisters shouting, and the distant clank of metal as her last allies run for the shoreline.

The Crone's voice whispers in her ear.

 _"_ _Run Nimueh,"_ she says. _"Run."_

* * *

Morgana shuddered. "I don't want to watch this anymore."

She squeezed her eyes shut and curled away from the Rowan Tree, hiding her face in his throat. Against his skin he feels her hyperventilate, but in his mind feels her panic. "I can't watch these women die; losing Morgause was hard enough."

Sharing a vision with another had strange consequences. Neither had full control of where they stood, or what they felt. Morgana's implacable desire to skip this scene tore away their stability, and turned the courtyard into a blurring smear of color.

Through clenched teeth he bites her name, but is ignored. Before his eyes the Rowan Tree shrivels. The berries dessicate and drop about them, and yellow dust takes their place. It fills the clearing and their lungs until his throat stings with the grit of it.

"He'll kill them, he'll destroy this place," she keened.

Cold needles pick at the strands of his thoughts, and her madness burrows deeper. Reality slips further away, and as he stumbles he latches onto Morgana's elbows. "It's already happened," he gasps.

"It's ruined," she cried. "They're all dead. I've failed."

"Not yet," he shakes her. "You can still fix this."

"I've tried," she wailed. "I've lost everything. Aithusa's gone. Emrys trapped me. Camelot stands, Uther's legacy remains. His flags still fly!"

"Camelot isn't the enemy, Morgana." He tightens his hold and wills her to look up. "I will defend magic. Arthur can change."

Behind her, wyverns are hatching and growing, flying and dying. Bodies are picked clean by new generations, and the courtyard becomes a sty of refuse. The stench seeps into his nostrils, but the moon deaccelerates its ascent, finally hanging frozen on them both. Morgana's eyelashes are clumped by water, and they fan out from her lids in thick v's.

She stares straight at him, and out of her sorrow and despair comes shock, blinding and pure.

* * *

Her vision goes white and she's flying forwards. Wind roars in her ears and ice slices into her face, and as her senses are consumed the second mind trickles away. The shared magic dissipates, and without it her vines snap back and disappear. By the time she realizes she's on the log near the fire in the clearing, she's numb with loss.

Her body comes to her second. Her face brushes the rough fabric of the Dolma's dress, her neck is sore, and her knuckles ache from gripping the witch's hand. She pulls her slouched body to straight, and her gaze connects with the Dolma's.

Comprehension comes to her third, and the feeling of loss hits her afresh.

The Dolma only reaches up to remove her cowl. Hand shaking, Morgana sweeps the witch's hair to the side, revealing an alabaster neck, though with one very particular scar. She very vividly remembers the mark of her Fomorroh, and now she has her final proof underneath the pads of her fingers.

The thought comes out of her, broken and unbidden. "Why did you lie to me?"

"I don't trust you."

 _Ha. Hah!_

"At least I never lied to you," she says fiercely.

She can almost see his face, hidden though it is behind the mask of her false friend.

"There are many things I wish I could change," he sighs and pushes her away. "But I don't regret what I've done."

He's walking away, and she yells at him. "You should!"

The black fabric ripples over his shoulders as he shrugs. He's giving up the disguise as he moves, and when he speaks his voice dips tenor. "Depending on how my defense goes, perhaps I will." He stops and smirks. "And if things go very badly, perhaps I'll see you tomorrow on a more permanent basis."

"Don't you dare come back here," she hisses. "I hate you. I don't want your friendship. I don't need your help."

"Yes you do," he says plainly. "Just like I need yours."

She stands and at him blasts a wall of magic, but he's already gone. There's a swirl of wind where he once stood, and though it does no good, she fires again.

The fire pulses larger with each of her pants, breathing with her. It spills onto the grass near her feet, but she hardly notices. She isn't so good at noticing things, is she? Even when the clues are right in front of her nose, she's hopeless.

It had always been him, hadn't it? Always, always, always, from the beginning.

Oh, Merlin, you _bastard._

* * *

 _The Fighter sung by In This Moment_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) I used Merlin Wiki for the history of the Isle of the Blessed. Canonically, the Rowan Tree is at its center, the Blood Guard were the protectors of the Priests and Priestesses, and many magical artifacts were smuggled out of it.  
(2) The Cup of Life (S1E13) used by Nimueh in the abandoned Isle of the Blessed, the Rowan Staff (S3E1&2) given to Morgana by Morgause to raise an army of the dead, and the Horn of Cathbhadh (S5E3 & P2: Hell Hath Plenty of Fury) were all canonically once on the Isle, protected by the Priestesses.  
(3) The triple goddess is a symbol of the maiden, the mother, and the crone.  
(4) A quote from Morgause: "When I was first brought here these hallways were more beautiful than any palace, and they were teaming with women. Women just like you and I, High Priestesses of the Old Religion. And the air was perfumed with magic. You could smell it as you approached across the lake. The whole island was pulsing with possibility and life. And it can be like that again. As the last of our kind, it is up to you to right the wrongs done to us by Uther Pendragon."  
(5) The Battle of Arderydd (P1: Magic Incarnate). Uther and his goons wreck the Druid's last major stand, largely because of the Sarrum's army of magic-eating black slugs, called Eancanah.  
(6) Lipstick. Not really a thing. More correctly I could have said lip dye. Some research did reveal beeswax + red plant dye could have been used. Thanks to Jewelsmg and Linorien for instigating my research.  
(7) Morgana put a Fomorroh in Merlin's neck to control him (S4E6)

 **Author's Note:  
** Extremely appreciate all the well wishes for my hike - it was a doozy! Base Camp isn't the white wonderland with the towering mountain that I expected. It's instead this grey boulder and glacier landscape. On the last day, I was walking on this thin dirt hill as our group split into three, the faster group ahead, the slower group behind, and me in the middle. We were so high up that it didn't get foggy, but cloudy, and as I stood on this hill I watched these clouds spill slow-motion into the valley and then envelop us. Everything was white. But when I looked up I could see the grey-circle of the sun, and just barely beside it in a floating silhouette, Everest.

I can see why people train for years in order to summit.

Huge thanks to the reviewers out there who reviewed anyway despite me not ever answering your PMs. Will absolutely be responding this time. And of course not enough thanks goes to Linorien, Jewelsmg, and dmarie1184 for inspiring me, boosting my dopamine levels, and loving writing and creating just as much as me.

On a note more in keeping with what we're all doing here... Merlin and Arthur finally having it out is something we've all imagined in one way or another. The series five finale gave us some of that in montage. They're just hitting the edge of that now. I feel a bit bad for Arthur. He thinks this is as bad as the lies go.

 **Next Time:** The Purge Trial. No more sneaky chapters, I promise. Everything is coming together next time.


	19. The Purge Trial

**—**

 **The Purge Trial  
** _The Ides of March_

Dawn rises on a Camelot quiet except for the crack of wine-red pennants and warble of bush crickets. That quiet breaks in ringing peals from the bell tower, and with it, life hums above the town roofs, drifting echoes of door slams and mother's shouts to the castle's front steps.

In this courtyard, the first to arrive are young boys who inch closer in giggling dares. Fresh-faced guards come next to chase them away, and following that come the servants. They're in their best clothes, some girls with flowers woven into their braids, and a hook-nosed man swings wide the front doors to let them in.

Gossip and breakfast waft from their wake, and not long later come the nobles in pungent silks. The King's Council in their entourage usurp the attention, Mistress Vanora in peacock blue, Lord Savile in luscious red, the merchant Grenfell in an olive doublet, and the others just as radiant.

When they pass, the guards cross their pikes over the doorway, and soon the courtyard is filled to bursting. It's a rock and roar of lye-fresh villagers with toddlers on their shoulders, the raw-pine of Druids bubbling with excitement, and the cloying sweat of a crowd waiting under a cloudless Camelot sky.

In that swarm an old crone is hardly noticed, and Merlin, as the Dolma, curls his hand tighter around his staff and settles in to wait with them.

Nearby Iseldir, finally breaking from the waves of a shifting crowd, ignores the scattered whoops that dog his climb up the stairwell.

"On your left!"

A green-capped messenger barrels towards him, and Iseldir ducks and dodges, spinning around an emissary and landing heavily on the opposite wall of the hallway. People surge past him in both directions, and suddenly he's a fish gaping from the riverbank.

It's these wide-eyes that meet Ruadan when he steps in. Ruadan's black cloak is already swung over his arm, and his leather jerkin is fastened all the way up to his short beard. As always, the man stands like a general.

Happy to see a face he knows, even if it's not a friendly one, Iseldir waves him over. "Ready?"

There's a pause as Ruadan huffs. "Of course. I've only thought the words every night for decades."

"You know what they say about best laid plans, Ruadan," he replies jokingly as they slip into the current. It rushes them around the next corner, widens, narrows, then spills out into the Throne Room.

There are two rows of seats facing the thrones, but also lines of cushioned chairs along the left and right walls. Arthur had said they'd have a seat, but he hadn't specified where, so Iseldir chooses an open chair in the second row. The nobles clustered to his left and the foreign servants to his right proved those seats were reserved for fancier bloods.

This is a good one, he thinks. Close enough to see the dais, but far enough away that he won't be the center of attention. Ruadan takes the seat next to him when a knight approaches.

"Just a second," the knight says.

He's the one with the long brown hair, and his name is _just_ on the tip of his tongue...

The knight grins. "It's Gwaine."

"Ah yes, apologies." Putting his hand on the back of the seat, "We can sit here?"

"Of course, you're the invited guests. At your service. Well, will be after you answer something for me."

"I knew I should have studied."

"Don't knock improvisation," he replied, then asked with his eyes darting warily to Ruadan, "Have you seen… Emrys?"

He thinks, and thinks, then thinks again in growing confusion. "No, not anywhere." He's worried now, but doesn't want to ask more where others could hear him. Fortunately, Gwaine reads his mind again.

"He'll turn up. He just likes his secrets," Gwaine says, then looks back and pouts in the direction of Gaius, who slumps and turns worried eyes into the standing crowd in the back of the throne room.

Gwaine nibbles at a fingernail. Could Merlin turn invisible? Probably. It sucked to be left in the dark, but whatever. Merlin would likely teleport into the middle of proceedings with lightning shooting out of his nostrils, and the drama would make up for the anticipation.

He moves back into line with the other Round Table members, facing the audience in a visual show of camaraderie. To Percival, he mutters, "I may not have gotten as much sleep last night as I'd hoped to."

Percival raises a brow.

"So if I look like I'm going to yawn, elbow me or something."

And then Percival, the unreliable nuisance that he was, proceeds to jab him so hard he gets the hiccups.

" _Ow."_

The back of the room surges with motion, distracting him, and lesser nobles, castle workers, and a chosen few Druids ripple to the side until the Sarrum stands framed by the crowd.

He wears a brown cape, brown shirt, and a wide leather belt in a third meticulously chosen shade. With the same fine-lined control, he strides for his seat. The advisors, scribes, and retinue of servants bustle to keep up, and from the catwalk above, onlookers gossip with excitement. Meant to only be guards that high up, enough money had slipped into the bottoms of beer mugs to form a second gallery of spectators just as eager for the show.

From the opposite end of the room, hidden like a nosy old woman in the Solar, Arthur watched the room coalescing and thought, _Guh._

This was really happening. Any minute now King Bayard would get here and they wouldn't be able to wait any longer. He should have gone over his speech one more time. He hadn't expected this many people. Someone would notice Merlin wasn't with him and they'd figure out that there'd been a mole in Camelot all this time—

Actually no, maybe some of the Round Table would find it odd, but it would hardly be a blip in the citizen's minds. And the foreign kings couldn't pick Merlin out of a line if their kingdoms depended on it. No, no one would notice. His best friend could disappear off the face of the earth and the world wouldn't skip a beat.

On further reflection that just seemed so _wrong_.

"Enough brooding, Arthur," Guinevere tugged at his sleeve and turned him away from the window, measuring him with her eye. She herself had gone with a gown so red his own cape seemed dull, and it formed perfectly around her strong arms, perfect breasts, and trim waist.

"Did we miss anything?" he asked.

"If we did, is it really going to ruin everything?"

"It could. Maybe I should have Leon reorganize the guards."

She sighed. "If Leon needs to do that, he won't ask your permission."

She brushed her long brown fingers over his shoulders, not that he felt it through his chainmail, then slipped them around the back of his neck and tugged him down for a gentle, lingering kiss. Gods, he loved her so much. He couldn't do this alone.

"Oh Arthur," she whispered, "everything is going to change after today." Her almond eyes searched his face, and he caught worry and sadness in hers. "No matter what happens, I love you." She kissed him again. "Let's go."

* * *

Guinevere led him out, and the crowd looked no smaller from the dais. Sweat beaded under his shirt. Did he seem normal? _Don't walk so fast._

His eyes darted to Emrys' empty chair, but he pulled them away quickly. _Stop that,_ he berated himself, _you'll look nervous._ Nod to the kings, the council, the knights. There's Gaius - _ergh_ \- he's not happy with me. Maybe don't look at Gaius.

The servants had dug a pair of old podiums from storage, and both now sat on the ground before the thrones. They'd needed some dusting, but the wood looked strong. A few sturdy steps led upwards to a flat, walled booth that had once had additional chains for the most dangerous of prisoners. Luckily someone had the foresight to remove any traces of entrapment. Though, they'd not have stood much chance against Emrys anyways - he was a man who could create windstorms and disappear into thin air on a whim. You know, just the sort of rational, reasonable traits he'd expect Merlin to trust.

Gwen nudged him. Right, he was just standing here staring at everyone. That was a bit weird. Were his eyes too wide? His neck was tingling, was that normal? It itched, he rubbed at it. Was it swelling? He couldn't feel anything with his fingers, but it certainly _felt_ like a bubble was growing within his throat.

 _Work past it, Arthur. You're panicking._ What were the first lines of his speech? Welcoming everyone. _I can do this._ He cleared his throat, spoke loudly, said "Camelot," and nearly clapped his hands over his ears at the almost deafening "CAMELOT" that blasted through the room.

"Guests," he tried, and it happened again. His voice blew out of proportion, vibrating through the bubble in his throat, so loud that even the courtyard could hear him clearly. Sure, he'd made speeches his entire life, he was used to projecting, but this was just abnormal. Even if he'd roared, he could never have been so loud. This was either a terrible dream, or the work of sorcery.

He had an urge to clutch his throat, as if that would muffle the magic. He looked around for someone muttering spell junk from under a dark cloak and started to panic. Even his problems had problems.

"Welcome," he closed and darted a helpless glance at Leon. He was going to have to go with this. He couldn't show that he'd already lost control of the room.

"Welcome to Camelot."

The crowd exploded with cheers, and he could do nothing but wait it out. Half the people cheering couldn't see him hold out his arms for quiet. Maybe he should keep talking? They'd have to stop then. Yes, he'd just have to plow onward.

"I've got questions. And I'd bet many of you are here looking for answers."

Yes, that seemed to work. He continued on with more confidence.

"I stand here knowing that my story is part of the larger Camelot story, that I owe a debt to the people who came before me, and those who stand here in this room. I want to know your story, and I want to give you justice, but I understand that ethics change and we must beware revenge. More importantly, I need to know how to move forward. My children… well, _all_ of our children... should, and will, remember us with pride.

"I don't say that with blind optimism. I have hope because of you, because of all of the people in Camelot who have taught me what hope is." He gestured, gaze on his own memories, "It's a mother warming a meal for a son late in returning from battle. It's eight friends in a night-lit cave after Morgana has won the day. It's every castle-worker, villager, and Druid who has looked at the ashes and rebuilt.

"This is what has brought us here. Hope in the face of difficulty. Hope in the face of uncertainty. The _audacity_ of hope. We're all here, hoping together, believing in things not yet seen— believing that there are better days ahead.

"It unites us. And only together will we make Camelot better than any one of us could imagine."

Arthur blew out a breath, and as the echoes of his voice bounced through the rooms, down the castle's halls and into the courtyard, an applause rose that deafened all those before. Relieved, he lets the swirl of Gwen's skirt usurp him as she steps ahead.

"Iseldir," she says, her clear voice ringing just as loud as his, "If you please?"

* * *

Iseldir wore a loose shirt buckled at the waist, and he adjusted the ends to ensure they were snugly about his hips as he stepped onto the first wooden stand.

"Sire," he bowed to each of them, "your Grace. Thank you for inviting me to speak. To be honest, I agonized over my words. My people requested both tales terrible and tales friendly. I believe either desire, or fear, for reprisal played a role." He had a slow way of speech, as if he tasted the words as he spoke them. "After their much appreciated council, I've decided to tell a story very singular to my own life."

His bright eyes darted to the side, "It has to do with you, Sir Leon."

Leon hid his surprise in movement, looking to Arthur for an unnecessary nod of approval. The second witness stand stood empty, and Iseldir had just called him to fill it.

He was already tall, but from atop the wooden stand he stood half a man above everyone in the room.

He could feel every eye.

"Sir Leon," Iseldir said, with a twinkle and a smirk Leon could not read. "We have some history, eh?"

Sure, their relationship had improved alongside Camelot's, but there was bad blood to draw out, and it made him wary. "Yes, we've known of each other for many years."

"How many raids have you led against my previous camps?"

"As Captain of the Guard, none." Leon said plainly. "As a knight under Uther, I participated in two raids against you."

"And one more question," Iseldir murmured. "Were those before or after I saved your life with magic?"

* * *

Leon remembered this, at least. The hot feeling of his blood pounding out of him in rhythm with his racing heartbeat, the cold that consumed him below the wound. The smell of his men dying around him. He'd lost them all, he'd failed, but maybe he'd be able to scratch a warning for Camelot in the dirt….

He cleared his throat, and it had the added benefit of quieting the muttering that had vaulted through the room. "That was after the worst of the Purge. Only a few years ago." He paused, "Why did you save me?"

"Why did you trust me?" Iseldir countered. "It was late evening, if I remember correctly. Cecht, he handles the security of our perimeter, told me some Camelot knights were traveling quietly nearby. I'd believed it was another raid."

"It wasn't," Leon answered. "King Uther had sent us to scout Cenred's lands."

"Ah," Iseldir nodded. "That explains the fight. They surprised you?"

They'd swiveled out from trees and killed half his party before he'd even had eyes on them. "Yes."

"Out of curiosity, did you hide our location from Uther? We were expecting a third raid that never came."

"I never told him precisely, no," Leon frowned, "but I believe your safety has more to do with Morgana's betrayal than myself."

"Ironic," Iseldir murmured. "Why did he attack us so often? What did he have to fear from me?"

 _It was the law,_ Leon wanted to answer, but that wouldn't carry far in this room. "He passed the laws because magic was dangerous. We couldn't go a fortnight without some new attack." His eyes flicked to Arthur, suddenly worried he'd overstepped the rhetoric.

"Revenge on revenge on revenge," Iseldir said, "I expected so. Why do _you_ think I saved you?"

Before that night in the forest, they'd not had a single positive moment. He'd never watched a Druid running and turned a blind eye to his escape. He'd been the perfect soldier, and he really could not fathom why Iseldir had chosen to save him. It made him quaver to think he hadn't deserved it, not from Iseldir's perspective, at least. "I can't fathom."

"It wasn't a grand plan, I can tell you that." Iseldir chuckled. "I had the magic ready in case you were going to attack us, and then we found you there. I think it would have been easy to let you die. It would have felt a little like justice."

Iseldir smiled softly. "But we didn't. Maybe that night I broke the chain of revenge, inadvertently." His smile grew wider. "I hear congratulations are in order."

"Pardon?"

"A dear friend," Iseldir said, addressing the crowd, "escaped from Camelot during a raid and came to live with us. Now she's returned to Camelot. How is Florridel?" He asked, turning back to Leon.

He hoped desperately this wasn't some ploy. "She's as strong as ever."

"That's wonderful," he beamed. "You'll invite me to the ceremony?"

"Of course," Leon replied stoically. "She's made a gift for you as well, if you have a moment to stop by."

"Ah thank you," he whispered, and with a small smile turned back to Arthur. "Sire, I believe that's all I had to say."

* * *

Gwen smiled through the smattering of applause. No question, that had ended in the Druid's favor.

The crowd seemed swayed, but crowd's usually were. The King's Council, however, were less so. Part of her job presiding over this trial was to keep the fragile peace intact, and to do that she needed a balance between bias.

There were a few cards she could play, and she compared them swiftly as she rose in Leon and Iseldir's wake. "Next we'd like to call a man who fought as an equal alongside King Uther during the Purge." She gestured. "The Sarrum of Amata."

The nearby crowd clapped politely as the Sarrum's bald head bobbed towards a stand. "Greetings, court," he said with small amusement, making a show of marveling at the magic that amplified his voice.

"I have a question I'd like to start you off with," Gwen said, watching as his small eyes danced at her, as if she amused him too. "Tell me the reasons you joined Uther Pendragon in the Purge, and what benefits you believe Albion has gained from it."

He face stilled into an emotionless desert, and as an empathic person this threw Gwen. The longer he stood there the more she wanted to fill the silence, and she waited, unnerved, until his eyes finally slid to Arthur.

"I enjoyed your speech. Hope and dreams - it's a nice thought." His hands folded behind his back and his chin tilted upwards. It thinned his gaze into a snake-like sliver. "I believe in hope, but I'm a realist. Do you know what happens when hopeful people don't get what they want? They feel slighted. Hope, almost always, turns to rage."

Offhandedly, "Do you have a historian? Yes?" He turned his head to Geoffrey the librarian, "No, no, stay there. I only have a few facts to check. Tell me, how many magical attacks on the crown since the Purge?"

He paused to listen, "At least a hundred, he says! I didn't expect so many more than Amata. And how many peasant uprisings?" Another pause for Geoffrey, "None? Let's be a bit broader. How many incidents of peasants killing their noble overlords?" He laughed. "Three? Stunning."

He turned to the court. "Do you see? Surely the peasants have hope for a wealthier future, but we don't see them lashing out in fury when they don't receive that future. Why is that? Their dreams are just as important as any Druids."

"I'll tell you why. Magic is power, and it corrupts those that use it. It only takes one deranged magic-user to kill good people. Many good people." He scoffed. "What is the alternative? Everyone learns defensive magic? A battalion of witches? And why exactly should those witches follow orders when they could slip a potion in your meal and make you do whatever they want?"

He shook his head, and his expression seemed to scream _it's so obvious, but I'll deign to explain for you._ "As the leader of my country I have to keep my people safe. Restrictions on the use of magic will only continue to reduce unjustified killings, just look at the numbers! Mark these words, those who forget history are doomed to repeat it. A ban on magic was only common sense, and still is the right thing to do. It has brought peace—"

Ruadan vaulted upwards, chair squealing. "Your majesty," he said, despite his glare never leaving the Sarrum's head, "May I take the other stand?"

* * *

The crowd held its breath, but Arthur and Gwen agreed, and so Ruadan walked forward. From the second-story gallery, which Merlin had wiled his way onto, both Ruadan and the Sarrum looked very small. A strange perspective, since the problems they represented had loomed so large in Merlin's life for so long.

The Dolma's body was more squat than his own, he had to bend to see through a window in the audience, and he had a crick in his neck from tilting past a guard's armpit. But in tune with Ruadan's stomp the guard muttered, "This will be good," and shifted just enough for Merlin to catch sight of Iseldir's profile. Half-lidded eyes, a slack mouth, hands loose in his lap - all clues that Iseldir's brain was far from here. What could possibly be distracting him _now_ of all times?

Something magical was his first guess, and as he expanded his vision to see the spellwork around them, he knew he'd guessed it in one. Overtaking the room in a flurry of jittery movement were tiny crystals of magic, doing their best to coalesce around Ruadan's throat. Clunky, he thought, and probably some kid's idea of rebellion. This must be the voice amplifying spell.

Too ill-formed to be Iseldir's work, Merlin focused more on the elder man, and saw instead a thin rope of gold extending from Iseldir back through the crowd and out where Merlin could no longer see. _Was that…?_ _Hmm._ He spun a bit of magic and extended it towards the rope, tentatively curling around it, and caught Iseldir mid-sentence.

Mid-sentence with… he listened… Bleise, Iseldir's master of histories. He felt Bleise's calm surety, Iseldir's concern, and how did eavesdropping on your allies fall on the scale of morality?

Who were his allies, though, really? Sometimes Merlin felt he was an island alone.

Iseldir, pensive: _"It feels sad, lonely. Deep."_

And a dubious Bleise, _"You're sure it's magic?"_

 _"_ _No,"_ Iseldir paused thoughtfully, _"It could be a presense. As you know, my good judge of character isn't always due to gut-instinct."_

 _"_ _That's not much for me to work with, Iseldir. Is there a person that stands out to you?"_

He sighed. _"Ruadan, perhaps. Though he usually feels off to me. Whatever this is, it's worse."_

 _"_ _Can you tell me from where it's coming?"_

 _"_ _I'm having trouble pinpointing it. You definitely don't feel it? It's large, and consuming; oppressive."_

 _"_ _No, Iseldir, I don't feel that at all."_

Merlin pulled back, looking at the room with new focus. If Iseldir could feel something so large, why hadn't he plainly seen it? There was no overt gold, nothing he could see or feel himself. What was this, what was going on? What had he missed?

* * *

Ruadan hated the Sarrum. Hated his thin-skinned face and smug little smirk and holier-than-thou attitude. Oh little Druid, you couldn't possibly understand the complexities of governance. You couldn't hope to challenge me and win. I could crush you and no one would blink.

The Sarrum had last claimed that the Purge had brought peace. Ruadan wasn't going to let him get away with that propaganda. "Your definition of peace is very skewed," he sneered. "You've silenced voices, not brought peace. To be specific, you've silenced my daughter's voice by hunting her, and my wife's voice by murdering her."

"I don't believe I've personally murdered your wife, and I am very sorry she's dead."

So he was going to take the high road, this slug of a man. "You're sorry? How does that help what your people have done to mine?"

"Did you know one of your kind snuck into my castle and killed one of my women only a few months ago?" His eyes rolled. "I can't help you Druids. And I don't see you jumping to help me. Unlike you, I don't expect it."

Incandescent rage gripped him, and he squeezed words tight from his throat. "So there is your definition of peace, for our people to leave each other alone?"

"I prefer a more positive outlook, but that's a very realistic answer."

He snapped, "Then why do I know for a fact you kidnapped a witch only last year, and imprisoned her in a well?"

"A witch, Ruadan? But who was she really?"

"You degraded and starved her for no reason other than her magic. Deny that you haven't done that throughout and since the Purge and I'll start pulling witnesses from the crowd."

"Oh Ruadan, loyalty is an overrated virtue. Championed by the bovine. Dignified by the weak to justify their weakness. It's not worthy of you." The Sarrum sighed, disappointed. "King Arthur, you'll agree when I say the witch deserved it. Your sister is an enemy to us all."

Disbelief, confliction, and then acceptance took Arthur's features. "You've captured Morgana?"

"No," the Sarrum said wistfully, and then with relish dropped the bomb he'd been waiting for all along, "Emrys broke her out."

* * *

 _No,_ Merlin thought, denial about the best he could do.

 _I couldn't leave her there? There was a small chance she might change? She's still trapped in a different prison regardless?_ He felt sick. Gaius, Gwaine… he couldn't see them from here. Maybe that was a blessing.

Arthur had launched to his feet. "I've heard a lot of things about Emrys. That he's all powerful. That he's some sort of messiah. Now, I hear he allies with Morgana." He was shaking. "I think it's time he start speaking for himself."

Merlin pushed his way forward, getting grumbles in response. He practically fell at the railing, and saw what he had hoped he had misheard. There, beneath all the anger on Arthur's face, was simple pain.

And Arthur was walking for one of the witness stands, and this was it. He hated to cry, but he felt the tears burning him. He had never wanted to hurt Arthur this much, couldn't have fathomed that he would ever.

"Well," Arthur said, when he stood alone. "Are you coming or not?"

"I'm," he said, but it came out hoarse and too hard to hear. He sucked in a breath, tried to hold everything back. To keep that emotion in and the smile on his face. Do his job, what he was supposed to do. He was here for magic, wasn't he? Not for himself. "Hold your horses," he yelled.

Vanora from the Council pointed, "There!"

The crowd turned in one horrifying moment, against him. Flipped and stared, like a nightmare. The people who had been pressed shoulder to shoulder on the catwalk just moments ago moved away, leaving him in an island alone.

Arthur's eyes skirted him. "You're not Emrys."

"I am," he said. "Wait a minute, will you? Learn something." He closed his eyes, concentrated _very_ hard on shifting his glamour directly from the Dolma to Dragoon. A lengthening in torso, the tickle of a beard. Steadfastly keeping the wrinkles and then one sudden leap, teleporting to the second witness stand in a slip of breeze.

And here they were, just two men, but with a crowd on one side and their family on the other, and between them, everything that was and would be.

* * *

"Let's start with Morgana," Arthur said acidically. "Where is she?"

Of course he wanted to give Arthur what he wanted, but in front of the Sarrum? In front of possible enemies of Camelot? And Morgana had been getting better; maybe with more time on her own, unhunted, she could make a turn for the better. Or did he only trust her because he'd trapped her?

"Can you speak?"

Relax, Arthur. "The particular location is something I think we should discuss privately."

"Privately," Arthur barked. "Will that be your bargaining chip? Her location and the subsequent safety of Camelot in exchange for, what, exactly?"

"I wouldn't trade someone like livestock, even if that person was Morgana." He'd watched Uther put silver in the hands of bounty hunters in exchange for terrified Druids, for confused children.

"If you ruled a kingdom, you'd think differently. Say bandits are hiding in the woods, and a group of men round them up. Of course we should reward them for it." Arthur shook his head. "I assume you think she deserves to be defended because she has magic. She's dangerous and is a proven enemy to us. She's a criminal. You protect her, then you're a criminal too."

"Oh, when have I not been a criminal to you anyways?" He rolled his eyes. "Look, where she is now, you're all safe from her. But at least she has some small freedom compared to the Sarrum's torture pit. Nobody deserves that."

Arthur looked disconcerted at the mention of torture, but he trudged on. "Even if I didn't agree with another kingdom's laws, I would follow the _proper_ channels of communication to fix them. If we're going to trust each other, you can't just blast lightning whenever you want to change something you don't agree with."

"Fine, but if someone starts rounding up magic-users or raiding campsites then I'll be much less agreeable."

"Well, good. We're not doing that so… good. We're agreed."

Arthur started drumming his fingers and the silence stretched on. Their conversations weren't usually this awkward. Was that all Arthur had planned on asking?

"You prefer Emrys or Dragoon?"

Oh, boy. "Either is fine. Emrys is probably less confusing."

"True."

 _Maybe I'm supposed to do my speech now?_

"Well I've got some questions for you," Arthur said.

 _Thank the gods._

"I've heard different sorts of legends from multiple people. I suppose you're not really a Druidic god, you seem too much like a man."

"I feel like a man too. I'd bet on that."

"So what's true then, in your own words?"

"I don't make the legends, but…" he did believe Kilgharrah's prophecy. He knew what he wanted, and he knew it was attainable. "But I'm going to bring magic's freedom back to Albion. And I'm going to do it by your side."

* * *

Gwen had stayed quiet till then, preferring to watch. And now she had even less doubt that Merlin was Emrys. They both tilted their head that way, spoke like that, had the same earnest love for Arthur. They even looked similar; it was almost glaringly obvious.

"That's presumptuous," Arthur said. "Quite an idea, considering our history."

She was fairly sure Gaius knew too. He'd looked too relieved.

"I know your dream, Arthur. Peace in Albion. Is it really so different?"

She'd never much believed it had been magic itself that had corrupted Morgana. Long before her magic, Morgana had been selfish. When Gwen's father died Morgana had made it about herself, and her everlasting trials against Uther.

"It may be the exact opposite. My father said peace had come at the hands of the Purge."

Oh, she thought, reading the crowd. That was a dangerous opinion.

"Your _father_ is the last person you should believe about the Purge."

"Is that why you killed him? You couldn't sway him? Revenge?"

If Merlin had wanted to kill Uther, he could have done it any night of the week. She'd never really seen him hurt anyone, ever, honestly. It must have been a mistake. If not, then she didn't know him at all.

"We can go there, Arthur, but I thought you wanted to fight the battle ahead, not behind. And I'm here to talk about magic, and it's rightful place here."

"This trial is about the Purge."

"To what pointless end? To trade blow by blow its atrocities?" Emrys' hands curled into fists. "Face it, King Arthur. The heart of the Purge is about magic, and your father's very suspicious hatred of it."

There was an angry tilt to his voice, Gwen noticed, but she was glad Arthur didn't stop him. It must be some form of release to finally say what had been bottled up for years. And it was fascinating to hear how Merlin really felt.

"You know the story. It's the worst, best kept secret in Camelot. You didn't want to believe it. He makes a deal with Nimueh. He knows the rules. In exchange for a son anyone is expendable but for his wife—"

"That is hearsay—"

"I saw it with my _own_ eyes!"

Impossible… but then, the detail. The way Nimueh slips away under a crescent moon. Uther's rage, the way he calls in another healer that day then kills them on the spot when they can do nothing. How he stalks the halls, white-faced.

"I think everyone thought the anger would pass with his grief. But it didn't. They waited quietly in their homes, and then walked willingly into these halls for the first slaughter."

He said Nimueh was a traitor whom had fled punishment. The knights knocked on the doors of anyone whom had ties to the Priestesses. But they didn't know where she had gone. They must have been lying, protecting her. A night in the cells would loosen their mouths. Maybe a few nights, and this time without food. Start killing the men, start burning the women. One a day. It's a sign to her - come back, look how your people are suffering when you hide.

But there's no word, and people are fleeing to the Druids, to other kingdoms, and it's been too long. She could be anywhere by now.

"So he writes a letter, but it's not just about her. It's about the defiance he's faced, a subtle rebellion they should be warned of occurring in their own lands." And, lo and behold, how right he is. Haven't the magic-users lorded their powers over their own lords for too long? Choosing who they would assist, picking favorites? They benefited from their economy and the safety of their walls, and now it was time to return the favor or leave. Or die. Because if you're not with us you're against us.

Gwen can't tear her attention away as Emrys' cold retelling bleeds into anger. Camelot is silent for the telling of the first battle, and the second. And then come the wins at Arderydd and the Isle of the Blessed, and she can feel his pain. A low moan rises from the Druids. The Eancanah _ate_ magic.

He's hurt, but he's determined, and his voice rises in a crescendo. "There is magic in everything; in the water, in the air, in your _clothes_ and it's all in chaos. Albion is _broken_. And for what? The entire Purge was a lie, a coverup, for the revenge Uther wanted on a single woman. If you're searching for injustice, there it is. You want to fix it? Release the ban."

The words he spits. His face is etched with opposition, his knuckles white, his spine rigid - proof upon proof upon proof that he would not yield this, would not budge. And it's like the words _change_ people. What was unsaid, buried, now open to be yelled in the face of their rulers.

The Druids, usually so peaceful, shout words she can't understand. A chant maybe. A spell? Half of the crowd screams, pushing away from them, and Leon is just in time to stop the guards from charging forward. The King's Council is standing, she's standing, _do something Gwen, think think think._

Arthur's response is in his snarl, and in his fear: _What are you trying to do, start another war?_

And from the corner of her eye she catches Ruadan between the bodies. He's seated, smiling. Smug.

In sudden clarity she knew. _Arthur's credibility would be lost. This would be the beginning of our decline. There would be a rebellion, a massacre. They weren't all going to make it out of here alive._

But she'd underestimated Merlin. When his amplified voice echoed over them all once more, defeat lay thick over it.

"King Arthur, I trust you," he said, and Gwen flinched at the crack in his voice. She couldn't watch, head bowed, but heard him grow quieter until he whispered. "For that, I forgive this kingdom, and you, for all of your father's sins."

That must have broke him, because a moment later he was gone.

And the crowd, all the hundreds, silent. Shocked, pained, breathless, as if he'd sucker-punched each Druid on his way out.

* * *

But as Emrys left to lick his wounds, he left Arthur alone, confused, reeling, and Arthur hoped it didn't show on his face. _Did he - I don't - I can't repeal the ban —_

He'd forever remember the heat of this moment, the way it prickled along his skin, how he was more sense than thought. He'd be able to return to feel the wood of the witness stand, creasing rough lines into his palms, his cape curled around his knees, and the heavy weight of his chainmail. He'd remember the strangeness of turning to the crowd and not being able to see their faces.

"Trial's over," he choked out.

It was a testimony to the people he loved that he didn't embarrass himself further. In the muddle Emrys left him mired, he had focused only on the steps of the witness stand as they led him to the ground, where Guinevere suddenly waited with a hand at his elbow. _"Wake up,"_ she whispered.

She took him back to the dais, where they watched the room trickle empty under Leon's command. Later, he'd remember to be grateful that the Druids had complied, even if it were likely a temporary passivity. They did not have the manpower for a large-scale magical riot. _Ugh_ , the original reason he'd called for the Purge Trial had been to _avoid_ a revolt!

"We need to call the Round Table," she hinted again, just under her breath. "But there will be eyes and ears in this room."

"Right," he said, and turned for their bedroom. He saw Gaius, waiting quietly where he'd been the entire time. Just another shadow in the King's court; another man who held the King's ear. How much had he seen over the years? Had Emrys lied, or was it true? It had sounded true.

"Sire," Gaius prompted.

"Please bring the others when they get back."

Gaius responded with a slight bow as they walked away, ever the respectful court physician. Emrys had left him entirely out of his retelling of the Purge; was that some form of protection? It was more likely that Gaius had not yet held the position of trusted advisor. Or perhaps that trust had been misplaced, as his trust for Merlin had been misplaced. Was it Gaius' past ties to magic that led Merlin to ally with Emrys?

He was more troubled than he'd been this morning, but he couldn't say he hadn't gotten what he wanted. He'd asked for the truth behind the Purge, and Emrys had given it to him.

Arthur unlocked their bedroom door for Guinevere, scanned behind them for any prying ears - none, good - then shut the door behind them. WIth a sigh, he leaned back and clunked his head on the wood.

Guinevere came and lay her head on his chest. "You did good today," she said. "But whether we trust Emrys or not, our people believed him, and we need to respond to that." He gave her a small kiss on her hair, his way of thanking her, but she tilted up with a frown. "What's going on in that head of yours, Arthur Pendragon?"

"It's hard to accept that so many people hated my father, is all." Had Uther had an uncommon bias? When he'd met his father's ghost he'd experienced the extremes he'd never quite believed Uther capable. That was partly why he'd wanted the Druids to live in peace within Camelot's borders. But were magic users dangerous? Certainly.

Today proved that a forest village wouldn't be enough for the Druids, yet the fear of magic had nearly chased half his people from the room. He hadn't expected the response to be so raw. Just the thought of magical freedom had nearly thrown them all into another bloody battle.

Freeing magic just didn't seem like the right thing to do. It seemed far more dangerous than beneficial. Emrys had been wrong to ask it of him.

A knock, then Leon's voice. "The courtyard is clear, and the guards are spread throughout the city."

Reprieve over, he and Guinevere pulled apart. He was glad she called the Round Table - he selfishly needed more friendly ears. And as he swung wide the door, he found all those ears waiting. Leon, Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, Gaius, and in the rear trying to blend into the background, Merlin.

 _Well_ , he thought, Merlin _had_ promised to come clean, and there would be no place better than in front of them all.

* * *

For as much as he loved his friends, Merlin wanted to be anywhere else in the world right now.

Just ahead of him was Gwaine completely ignoring him, and Gaius, whose shadow he hid within, radiated disappointment. Despite a lifetime with magic he'd rarely felt so isolated.

He inched last into the royal chambers and slowly shut the door behind him, wishing there were more chores he could busy himself with. A quiet gone too long became an oppressive silence, and tension strung them tight—

And snapped them like bowstrings when— wow, that was forceful— Percival let loose— long too, how was that possible?— the loudest fart he'd ever heard.

Percival's laughter boomed over the end, tears coming to his eyes as Leon walked away in a flurry of sputters. "Whew," he explained finally, "do you know how hard it was to hold that in all morning?"

"Are you _kidding_ me!?" Elyan yelled.

"And I have to live with this guy," Gwaine muttered.

Arthur waited patiently for Percival to calm down, then jabbed a finger at Gwen, "There's a lady present!"

She tossed his words away with a wave, "Oh, it's no worse than Elyan's."

Percival burst into renewed giggles, and Elyan drug his hands down his face. "Gwen, you are so lucky I'm a _true_ knight, because I could tell so many stories about you."

"Try it, brother dear. You'll find I know all your deepest, darkest secrets." As her eyebrow quirked up, her eyes flicked involuntarily towards Merlin, and his stomach couldn't help but flip.

"Let's hold off on those," Leon interrupted, "I've heard enough intense stories for one day."

"You can say that again," Gwaine agreed.

"I'VE HEARD ENOUGH _—"_

" _When_ did Percival have time to drink a tavern out of business?" Leon groused.

"An afternoon at the tavern is tempting, isn't it?" Arthur mused.

Elyan's mouth dropped wide open. "When did you go blonde, Gwaine?"

Merlin leaned back against the door as the knights traded their tension for a giddy relief. He could feel it bubbling away in his chest too, maybe excess adrenaline, but it put a grin on his face irregardless.

Even if they threw him out on his arse, he'd still protect them from the eaves until they invited him back. Because they would invite him back; he was just as much their family as they were his.

And then, like Fate had heard him, Gaius walked close and put a comforting hand on his shoulder. He murmured, "If I did not defend you today, and all days hence, then I would no longer know who I am."

 _Thank you_ , he wanted to yell, his blinding smile likely enough, and he was tempted to jump forward and embrace him but — _Oof_.

 _Ow_ , the doorknob… He thought he had locked it.

He shifted, and the door swung further open, catching his ankle but then going far enough to hit the back wall. It was Sefa's nervous gaze he caught first, but then her father pushed her forward.

You'd never know the knights had been anything but eternally suspicious. Leon even stepped to the center, hand on his sword, and Arthur said, no hint of a smile, "This is a closed meeting."

Merlin sucked in a breath. _I can feel it. Iseldir was right; it's deep. Gods it's deep. Where is it?_

Ruadan held up his hands in surrender, "Apologies." He bowed slightly, opened his cloak to show he was hiding no weapons. "We're leaving shortly, and I came to pay my respects."

Arthur frowned, and Leon wavered, but eventually moved aside. Ruadan's cloak fluttered closed as he stalked forward, and Sefa unfurled her own. It was a forest green that didn't suit her—

And Merlin's buried. Cold Iron circles his wrists and he can't move from Arthur's doorway. Aithusa's at his feet. The air smells of pigs and when he breathes he falls deeper into a stench of mold and decay and human sweat. He's floating on the edge of an endless nightmare, drowning in darkness, deep, damp, buried—

Ruadan's got Arthur trapped in a treacherous handshake, and he turns eyes-flashing to Merlin, who's suffocating. "I came to Camelot seeking righteousness, but I'll have to accept revenge. You had _no right_ to speak for all of us."

 _I can't move_. Ruadan and Arthur disappear in a gale, and the cloak vaults from Sefa's grip, heading straight for him. It gets closer, and the magic gets worse. _I can't breathe._

And then he's on the ground, and he's free.

And Gwen lets out an inhuman shriek.

The cloak swarms her like a living being, swirling and tightening and covering like a shroud until all they know of her is the dark fabric stretched taut over her silent scream, the spider-crawl of her fingers, and the blood pooling at her feet.

" _Did she push me aside?_ " Merlin's screaming, " _Did she push me!? GWEN!"_

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" Elyan roars, hand at Sefa's throat. "Stop it!"

"Cut it off of her!" Gaius commands, but the other knights are already there, trying. They rip at it as she writhes, and it rips back at them.

"It's cursed, it's cursed!" Sefa starts sobbing mindlessly, "I didn't know, I didn't know!"

Galatine pierces into the hole of Gwen's mouth, and Percival and Leon plunge their hands into the tear, straining.

They free her face, and Merlin stumbles forward to hold her. She moves so easily, flopping onto her back. The knights struggle against the cloak, but now they're winning.

Short croaking breaths stutter past a thin film of saliva building on the crease of her mouth. He pillows her head on his knees, it doesn't help, and her hot sweat coats his fingers. Her hair is drenched.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know, I'm sorry," Sefa moans.

"Her heart is fluttering," Elyan chokes, hand on her chest. "Gaius, help her."

Merlin stares into her eyes, lidless and bulging, and she doesn't stare back.

"She's dying," Leon says.

" _Gaius, please!"_

Gaius yells a spell, hands pushed out, spraying a jet of cold water.

"She's cursed!" Gwaine yells in sudden comprehension, and grabs for Merlin's neck. He yanks the necklace and the leather snaps, then he slams a ring of icy glass back into Merlin's chest. "You told me it was a cursebreaker. In the caves, you said so! It can fix her!"

Freya's wedding ring falls into Merlin's palm, and in an instant he's pushing it onto Gwen's finger.

It bursts in a thunderous drumbeat of gold, shimmering over Gwen in rippling sound waves, disintegrating Morgana's dark magic in its wake.

Gwen's eyes slide closed, her staccato breath slows, then slows too far. She cools then grows cold. She's still dying.

Elyan pulls her into his arms, muttering a stream of No's and prayers.

 _She can't die. I can't let this happen._

Last night he'd gone with Morgana to the beginning of the Purge, to Nimueh in these chambers, trading Ygraine's soul for Arthur's. The Cup of Life had built a tornado of gold. He could do that. He could create that spell.

Merlin's head falls back and his vision goes a gold brilliant enough to brighten the room. He walks out into the void, the cold chaos of Albion's magic surrounding him, and then he invites it in. Rips it through his own magic, expels it twisting, then pulls it in again, accelerating into shrieking bolts of swirling lightning.

The point is in her chest but the top expands into the ceiling, covers it, then pushes up into the sky. The winds fight him, and the clouds flee. Nature suffers no crimes in peace, and it wars against a soul pulled from its grave.

There are no pretty crystalline shapes bringing order to disorder, only this massive storm of raw power, and it consumes him, utterly.

Outside, Gaius can only grip Merlin's trembling shoulder and wait through the aching beats. The remnant of his feeble magic shivers, but he can not see what Merlin does. No one witnesses the snap, the instant cracking bend, as the tornado folds in half and sucks away a baby's precious life, but they do see Gwen shudder and cough.

She gasps, "Arthur?"

Merlin falls back to earth, and he can't feel his limbs. "It's done."

This his eyes roll into the back of his head and he faints dead away.

* * *

 _Love & Hate sung by Michael Kiwanuka_

* * *

 **Footnotes** :

(1) Iseldir - The leader of the Druids living within Camelot's borders, specifically within the Forest of Brecffa. Most recently seen at Arthur's dinner table (P2.16 Never Again, Again).  
(2) Ruadan - Previous leader of a tribe of Druids from Essetir. Sefa's father. Witnessed Samhain's Riot and spent winter with Morgana (P2.7 The Audacity of Hope, P2.16 Never Again, Again).  
(3) The King's Council - the Clue characters in another form. Mistress Vanora / Mrs. Peacock - a widowed older noble (P1.6 Put a Ring on It, P1.13 Cinderella). Lord Savile / uncle of Lady Lyvieve / Miss Scarlet - older noble (P1.7 Lack of Study in Scarlet, P1.13 Cinderella). The merchant Grenfell / Mr. Green (P1.13 Cinderella, P2.11 Alpha Bitch).  
(4) King Bayard - King of Mercia (P2.3 The Betas, P2.16 Never Again, Again).  
(5) The Sarrum - King of Amata (P1 Two Can Keep a Secret, Centuries, P2.16 Never Again, Again).  
(6) Arthur's speech - I listed and read Obama's 2004 DNC Keynote address before writing this speech; if you haven't heard it, it's beautiful; when you see similarities in my writing I own none of it.  
(7) The Cup of Life - the story of the Druids saving Leon's life with the cup refers to the canon S3.12 The Coming of Arthur.  
(8) Florridel - Leon's fiancee, former Camelot citizen, escaped to live with Druids, occupation: tanner. Most recently (P2.17 House of Cards).  
(9) Morgana's well prison - canon, the Sarrum trapped her there after Series 4 ended. (P1.26 The Sound of Silence).  
(10) The truth of Arthur's birth is revealed in canon by Morgause summoning an apparition of Ygraine (S2.8 The Sins of the Father).  
(11) Sefa's dark magic forest green cloak - Morgana puts a dark curse on this cloak and gives it to Ruadan (P2.11 Alpha Bitch).  
(12) Merlin seeing the Purge and the golden tornado with Morgana (P2.18 Eve). This is a reference to a legend where Merlin hid in a bardsey tree grove, went mad, and became a seer.  
(13) Freya's ring, the cursebreaker (P1.13 Cinderella, P2.16 Never Again, Again).

 **Author's Note:**

First off, thanks to Jewelsmg for offering this song to me months ago and breaking me out of a rut. I knew almost instantly where I wanted to use it. Thanks to the beta of betas Linorien for pushing me over and over again and brainstorming to help me get this chapter done. Dmarie1184, I always enjoy hearing about the campaign you're playing, thanks for that bit of joy in my life. Thanks to them all my verbosity is clarified, my nerves are soothed, I can finally publish this chapter.

Andreki and Leannie, I kept quotes from each of your reviews at the bottom of the Purge Trial's writing document, because when you first said them they made me think very deeply about what I needed and wanted to show this chapter, so extra thank you for your past reviews.

I spent too much time worrying that this chapter wouldn't live up to expectations. I'm glad I pushed through, but I'm also glad it's behind me. You'll have to tell me how it stacked up, and PMs will be inbound for you all soon.

During a family reunion a far-removed uncle had a heat stroke and died in my arms in the process of writing this chapter. I tried to channel some of what that felt like with Gwen and Merlin, though now I feel guilty for it. It was nice to have magic and save Gwen.

 **Next time** : Hi. It's nice to finally meet you.


	20. Hi

**Hi  
** _The Ides of March_

Elyan cradled their queen back to life. He held the tender, tenuous quiet that followed the chaos of Ruadan's betrayal, and Percival was grateful to give it to him. Everything could have gone much worse.

Percival had been given clues, but his own bias had overridden them. For one, he would never have left his own family behind to face retribution, and so he'd never expected it from Ruadan. The druid girl was in the corner now, looking terrified. Acting or true, he didn't know.

Cowardice was another clue he'd failed to notice, because he despised all its forms and did not expect it in his allies. So the cloak, a weapon in the form of a gift, had shocked him. Though perhaps anything was possible. Emrys had said there was magic in clothes. Had that been meant as a clue? Had it been a slip of his tongue, referencing a plan he'd had in reserve?

Gwen, at least, had seemed aware that something was going to happen. After Ruadan had disappeared with Arthur, she'd run for Merlin before they'd even realized what was happening. She'd known, somehow, that the cloak would attack Merlin.

And then, well, it was still sort of a blur. A rising panic had gripped him— a panic he hadn't felt since watching Merlin and Arthur return from the Isle of the Blessed without Lancelot. He hated the feeling of his family slipping through his fingers— he'd felt it now too many times.

He did remember ripping the cloak in half, and rolling atop, his feet on the corners, the fabric slapping welts against his elbows, then it all ending in a blast of unearthly gold. It left the cloak where it was now, sitting lank under his boot. As much as he'd disliked the pyres, he now understood where the urge to destroy every remnant of a sorcerer came from.

But that brought him to Merlin, who quite obviously had magic. A lot of it, it seemed. Percival had never witnessed even the whites of someone's eyes go gold, and he'd been a sword's length away from Emrys before.

Whatever he'd done had knocked him out, and he lay crumpled where he'd fallen. Someone should check if he were breathing, at least. Magic may be against the law, but surely everyone would accept that he'd used it to save Gwen's life.

"Elyan?" Gwen rasped, stronger now, even if still draped over Elyan's arms. "What happened?"

"You're going to be fine," he answered instead, looking to Gaius. "She's going to be fine, right?"

Gaius put a hand on her face, perhaps feeling her temperature. "She'll recover. She just needs to be cleaned up and allowed to rest."

She reached for her skirts, but Elyan stopped her hand, holding her tightly so she couldn't feel or see them. It was good of him. There was a lot of blood, and she didn't need to know about that right now.

"Let's get her on the bed, Elyan. I'll need hot water and linens, and from my chambers the jar of clove oil. She needs a new dress. Can someone fetch her handmaiden?"

Everyone traded glances. Leon answered, "I do not believe she has one."

"I could get a midwife?" Percival asked.

Gaius held up a hand. "We must be wary what news leaves this room."

True, unfortunately. Their king had been captured, and their queen looked terribly injured; Camelot had lost their rulers so soon after a near panic— nothing good would become of honesty right now. "Is there anyone we can trust? Gwaine, what about your sister?"

"Ari is the biggest blabbermouth this side of the Tamesis, absolutely not."

"Uhm," Sefa raised a hand from the tiny ball she'd curled herself into. "I can help."

"You are not getting _near_ her!" Elyan roared. "You're spending the rest of your life in the dungeons."

"Wait just a second, Elyan," Percival said, because he'd just watched the girl pale and shrink away. If she was acting, she was the best in Albion. "I don't think she knew what her father was planning."

Gwaine pointed at his own face, "Hey girl, remember me? We met on Samhain. Where's your father? Where did he take Arthur?"

"I don't—"

Gwaine snapped, "Smarten up, think. Where would he have gone? It was teleportation, right?"

"Right," she wavered, surprised. Percival understood the sentiment. When did Gwaine learn so much about spellcasting? Sefa stuttered later, "He's never gone further than a league with me."

"Then he's close," Gwaine looked around. "We can find him if we fan out, who's coming?"

Leon shook his head, "Someone needs to keep the court at bay. I can't—"

Gwaine didn't wait much longer. "I'm headed East," he said while striding quickly away.

"Wait," Gaius called, but it was too late. Gaius suddenly looked very old, but before Percival could think too much on it, Leon touched his shoulder.

"I will have to speak with the visiting kings, and make excuses to the Council," Leon said to him. "Elyan will stay to help Gaius, but I need you and Gwaine to find Arthur. Get Gwaine to slow down and focus, please."

Percival nodded, and Leon left the room.

By then, Gaius had knelt down and was failing to roll Merlin over, so Percival joined him.

Merlin moved like a rag doll, head lolling and eyes rolled into the back of his skull. But when on his back, it was obvious he was alive. Percival scooped him up into his arms.

"What are you doing?" Gaius asked warily.

"He's spent too long on the floor." There were some pillows in the Solar upstairs that would make a better place to sleep this off.

Some of the tension left Gaius, but he still spoke softly. "He has a way to track Arthur. When Merlin wakes up, he'll find him."

Merlin was heavier than he looked, but once back to standing Percival eyed Merlin's unconscious face. "Do you think he'll wake up soon?" Gaius was quiet, so Percival finished. "I'll still go after Gwaine, but it is good to know that Merlin will be behind us soon enough."

* * *

For Arthur, his first experience teleporting felt like a gust of wind had blown him over the ramparts. It was one big huge _whoosh,_ and then plummeting towards an invisibly far ground.

And then _bam!_ standing in the forest, shaking hands with Ruadan.

"You're coming with me," Ruadan ordered unnecessarily— Arthur had figured that much out, thank you very much— "and don't try anything."

Hah, right. He reached for Excalibur, but couldn't get his hand out of Ruadan's grip. The man pursed his lips as Arthur struggled— this was harder than it looked, don't judge. Up and down were still a bit screwy too.

Way too screwy, uh oh. "You should let me go now."

"Unbuckle your sword belt," Ruadan said instead.

Arthur countered in style. (He doubled over and puked on Ruadan's boots.)

* * *

An indeterminate amount of time later, Arthur returned to consciousness. His heart drummed a beat in his temples, and there was soil squishing into the corner of his mouth. If he remembered correctly, Ruadan had slammed him quite forcefully into the dirt.

He squinted, pushing through the stab of sunlight, and counted the hours based on the lost angle. Three, he guessed. Then he sat up, tried to clean his stained face and matted hair— and gross, that was dried vomit. After the hospitality he'd shown Ruadan, the least the man could have done was avoid the puke pile.

Actually— _Fie, Excalibur was missing._

"Awake, are you?" Ruadan murmured.

"As it happens, yes." He tracked Ruadan's voice to a few feet behind him. The Druid was cross-legged, with his back resting against a thick tree. "So, what are we doing out here? Waiting on someone?"

"I am preparing for the next jump."

 _I should probably start running._

"Try it, and you'll get another lump on your forehead."

 _Gwaine was right, my poker face does need some work._ Though, regardless, he wasn't going anywhere without his sword; and from the looks of things, it was currently buckled to Ruadan's waist. He'd need a chance to knock him out. Ruadan obviously wasn't out to kill him, so he had some time to figure out a method. And as for timing… "Where are we headed?"

"To see the High Priestess. She's the only one powerful enough to stand up to Emrys. And Emrys has forfeited himself for your good graces."

"We're going to see… _Morgana?_ " Alright, maybe Ruadan was out to kill him. "Why?"

Ruadan took a deep breath, did what Arthur assumed were magic channeling motions, then answered, "You weren't swayed by the truth of the Purge, maybe your half-sister can convince you. And if not, well… she won't be afraid to kill you and put someone better suited on the throne."

 _Kill me… ?_ Ruadan had seemed so reasonable. A little cold, perhaps, but level-headed, like a man who had thought through Albion's deficiencies. Perhaps he couldn't present them as controlled as Iseldir, but he was at least passionate….

Arthur had missed the extremism completely. Again he was learning the cost of his judgements in character— Morgana, Agravaine, Ruadan… and surely, another in the future. He had failed again to learn from his mistakes.

* * *

The acrid taste of a sleeping potion coated Gwen's teeth, and she blearily woke to her curtains drawn tight and a steady _swish swish_ of water on stone.

She shifted for the cooler edge of her pillow, but regretted it when the muscles in her neck and shoulders spasmed. No moving, then. It didn't take much convincing— she had terrible cramps crawling along her abdomen and lower back. Though, that was all less distracting than the unbalancing churn of a cavernous emptiness in her soul. Some part of her had been stolen, irreversibly.

"Gwen, you should be sleeping."

Elyan walked closer and smoothed a large brown hand over her face.

"Could I have some water?"

He hesitated, and glanced at someone else in the room. "I don't want to leave you alone."

"Why?" She winced. "Elyan, help me sit up."

He tucked a hand under her shoulders and waist, maneuvering her against her pillows until she was propped against the headboard. He bunched the blankets at her sides; sweet but unnecessary, she could stay upright. As he doted, she found the source of the _swish swish_ — the Druid girl, Ruadan's daughter, scrubbing the floor.

"She's just a young girl," she reasoned.

Elyan frowned, announced loudly, "I won't be gone long," then strode away.

"Come here," Gwen said, when Elyan had gone. "What's your name?"

"Sefa," the mousey girl answered timidly. Clutching the rag in her hand, she got to her feet and inched towards the corner of Gwen's bed. She hid behind her broken braid, hair falling across her face. "I swear I didn't know what the cloak could do," she shook, "I'm so sorry, I didn't know, I never expected—"

"Where did you get it?"

Gwen was watching Sefa close enough to notice her pupils dilate in fear. "My father, but he probably got it from," she gulped, "the High Priestess Morgana."

"Morgana's scorn knows no bounds, yet this cloak is a new low for her." It was a truly torturous way to kill someone. Besides the soul-sucking pain of it, and the sheer desperation for escape, she had gleaned a few other misplaced details. Details like manacles, cold stone at her back, and the stink of refuse. Perhaps the worst torture Morgana could conceive of was a torture she'd undergone herself. It had all certainly felt like an underground prison.

"Your father said Morgana was trapped in the Sarrum's well. It appears they know each other well."

Poor girl, she looked like a deer staring down a hunter's crossbow. Gwen could relate to that, quite literally.

"I'm not going to condemn you," Gwen tacked on. "Not yet, at least. Just tell me the truth."

Sefa nodded and bit at her lip. The skin of her lips were torn up; it must be a nervous tic of hers. "Yes," she said carefully. "We spent the winter months with her. We ran into her in the forest."

Merlin, as Emrys, had said that he'd put Morgana somewhere they'd all be safe from her. A forest anyone could stumble across didn't sound so safe. "Which tower did you stay at? Or do you know approximately where you were? We have a detailed map with many ruined structures marked, we could narrow it down."

"It wasn't a tower," Sefa answered. "She lived in the Forest of Ascetir. She couldn't escape past the edges of one small clearing." Sefa looked like she was going to say more, but she swallowed her words.

"And what did you think of Morgana? Years ago, she was one of my best friends."

That worked; Sefa spoke honestly, if haltingly. "She was very angry, and lonely. I felt bad for her. I tried to help her, give her food and soap and other things... but she liked to snap at me, whatever I did."

"You sound like a very sweet girl, Sefa."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"So where has your father taken my husband? The good thing to do is just tell me."

"The knights asked me that too," she started to tremble. "I really don't know, I didn't know he was planning anything, I can't believe he's done this—"

"Stay calm, Sefa. What about safe havens? Old friends? Who can he trust?"

"Don't bother," Elyan said, returning with a goblet. "She's clueless, or at least pretending to be."

Sefa recoiled from him, eyes downcast and white fingers clutching at the mop. Gwen took the goblet and a small sip. "You hate her."

"She hurt you."

"She's cleaning dried blood off of the floor."

Elyan's visceral reaction was proof that she'd guessed right.

She reached out and gripped his forearm, holding him close. "Please, Elyan, tell me what happened."

Elyan adjusted so he held her hand, then he shook his head. "You should talk to Gaius."

In his face she found apology, and the truth there put her heart into a terrible staccato. He pulled her forward. Enveloping her in his warmth, his rough hands squeezed against her shaking and her cheek pressed sharp into his chainmail. It may not have been comfortable, but it was comforting.

Perhaps the strong thing to do was to get Gaius, to move forward, but she knew what he'd say; her closely guarded secret, the baby for which she'd dared to think _maybe,_ was gone.

* * *

 _There are better ways to tell me where to go rather than jabbing me, Ruadan._ Given the chance he might break those fingers joint by joint.

Arthur bit his tongue and thought through his options again; he was nearly out of time to get Excalibur. He had heavy boots, sans the knife he usually hid there, his cloak, no chainmail, and no sword. But there were plenty of stones and plenty of branches, one could make a surprise weapon if needed. It was Elyan who'd told him a stick jabbed into someone's ear could be far more painful than a stab wound.

After another sickening jump they'd been walking eastward for hours, and Arthur was sure they were almost upon Morgana. Had that knowledge come from the pull of gut-instinct or the pang of a sibling bond? No. The forest was getting blacker, and that was telling enough.

And no, he didn't mean the light was dimming, it was as bright an evening as ever, no— literally the trees and the ground were getting blacker. "Is she intentionally this ominous, or does everything just die around her?"

Ruadan didn't answer, which told Arthur the question was either too stupid, or Ruadan didn't know the answer.

So, Arthur swiped his hand against the next grimey tree he passed. He rubbed the dark grit in his hand and determined, "Soot," just as their path took them into a graveyard. Through the last few living trees and mosses stretched a fresh swathe of tall, blackened, branchless trunks, and a ground littered with burned debris. Arthur snorted, "There's no way she stayed here through a forest fire."

"She can't leave, she's trapped by magic. She's here."

So this was the prison Emrys had put her in. Had she caused the inferno, or had she been trapped in it? "She must be dead then."

Arthur detected a hint of hesitance. "She's a high priestess, she can put out a fire."

 _She wasn't so good at putting out her curtains._ He muttered, "Let's hope so."

They'd crunched through a few feet of soot-covered soil when Ruadan did a double-take, "You prefer her alive?"

 _Do I?_ No, not really… the last time he'd seen her she'd just gotten off on massacring his people, using Gwaine for her army's entertainment, starving Gaius, and torturing Elyan. She'd looked smug and sure when she'd betrayed their father. _That_ Morgana he'd like to see… gone. Dead by inferno felt too extreme considering the woman he'd once trusted with his life, but gone… gone he could do.

Was wanting that more peaceful solution cowardly? Maybe. Probably.

Ruadan muttered, "Of course you don't."

"Actually," Arthur corrected, "I think I do."

Ruadan poked at him again— telling him to veer left. The next time he'd grab that finger and twist, bend Ruadan's arm back. If he moved quickly he could get at his sword hiding beneath Ruadan's cloak.

"So the High Priestess gets a free pass while the rest of us burn?"

"In what world is _that_ true?" Arthur snapped, twisting enough to glare. "Iseldir and the Druids live _openly_ in Camelot."

"I'm not talking about the Druids, I'm talking about spellcasters. This is about _magic_. It's always been about magic!"

"Alright, alright, it's about magic," he bit.

"You know what else?" Ruadan railed, "Magic isn't going to stop existing because you don't like it. People have magic. Learn to live with it. You live with far worse evils."

He matched Ruadan's scowl with another of his own, and he chose to take the bait. "Like what?"

"For starters," Ruadan snarled, " _the Sarrum of Amata._ "

"What's your problem with him? When he spoke during the Trial you could barely keep control of yourself."

Ruadan elbowed him, hard, in the side, and when Arthur had doubled over he snapped forward with a dagger. Arthur slowly put his hands into the air. The cold metal lay flat beneath his chin, and he decided it was best to swallow his words.

Ruadan leaned forward, close enough to smell his breath, and began to whisper. "Do you know how to slit a throat?"

 _Why, you want a lesson?_

"Best to go ear to ear, so they die quickly."

 _Threaten me again, Ruadan, and see what happens._

"I learned through practice on my own allies." He backed off a step, knife still out threateningly. "Every magic user knows it's better to die than let the Sarrum's men capture you."

He'd never slit the throat of his knights, even as a mercy. They'd survive long enough for him to save them.

But if Ruadan could be believed, then many Druids felt this way about the Sarrum. It wouldn't be good for Camelot if he ignored Ruadan's warning now. "Look," he said, slowly lowering his hands so they hovered near his chest. "I'll dig into his history. If you're telling the truth, there will be proof somewhere. Only then will I do something about it."

Ruadan looked pensive, and Arthur hoped that was a good thing. But, the man had just held a knife to his throat, and he was fairly sure that pale creature huddled in the distance was his dear sister Morgana. It was now or never.

So he lunged, got the wrist with the knife in one hand and twisted behind Ruadan, locking his other arm around the Druid's neck. Ruadan tried a kick at his knee, but _nope,_ no one but Percival could out-wrestle him. "I can give you justice," Arthur huffed through the struggle, "but you have to _let_ _me_ _go_."

Ruadan snarled, then launched a wave of magic that blasted them backwards— Arthur's ankles caught on a log and they toppled onto their backs. He kept his grip despite the air whooshing from his lungs.

"I don't have to hurt you," he gasped. "Just want my sword."

"Oh, shall I just give it back and walk away, pretend nothing happened, _hope?"_ Ruadan tried twisting over, "I was once like Iseldir, too. Doing nothing. Wishing that goodness would prevail. _Get off!_ "

" _Never_." And how dare he bad-mouth Iseldir? Arthur doubted he would have trusted the Druids if not for his many interactions with Iseldir. "That 'weakness' was what earned my respect. It takes a bravery that you don't have."

"Standing by, biting my tongue, is a peace I refuse. Peace was my excuse when I told my tribe the war wouldn't come to Essetir, peace the reason we had no weapons when they came for us, peace why I hid powerless while my wife died a slow death. I _will_ _ **not**_ —"

The now familiar swoop leapt through Arthur's gut, and then he was thrown headlong into the empty nothing.

He landed on his side in another patch of burned forest, and the nausea hit him in a wave strong enough to blur his vision. But before him was Ruadan staggering. That meant he'd likely not had enough magic for a jump, which meant he definitely had none left now, so Arthur leapt.

It was more of a tackle-fall, but no one but Ruadan and possibly Morgana were there to witness it, and no one would believe them.

Anyway, the point was, he got his sword. He felt like his stomach was going to come out of his nose, but he had his sword.

"Now, Ruadan," he said, swallowing, "hand over my belt and scabbard."

Ruadan winced and shoved himself away, "No."

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, but the sound of Morgana's tinkling laughter made him choke.

He crouched, checked his periphery— couldn't see her.

Then she spoke, much closer than he expected. Way closer than he wanted. Behind him?

"It was always _mine, mine, mine_ , with you, wasn't it, Arthur dear?"

* * *

The Solar's velvet curtains drew tight across the sweeping windows, leaving the room dark and warm from risen air.

Even that was an uncommon comfort for Merlin, and so he woke on the slippery smooth pillow disoriented and bleary. There was a large blob of drool clinging to the side of his mouth, and he wiped it away while shoving the stained pillow aside.

 _Ugh._ He felt like the Beltane hangover that came to life.

" _Where have you been!?"_

He pressed his hands against his ears, not that they would help against Gilli screaming at him via magic. " _Not so loud."_

" _I thought I was going to die down here!"_

" _Seriously? How long has it been since I saw you?"_

" _About a day,"_ Gilli answered sullenly.

" _You'll live. Look, a lot has happened today."_

" _Boo-hoo. Have you got a grey hair? I'm a river monster."_

Merlin rolled his eyes. Okay, yes, that was still a problem, but it was a problem at the bottom of his list. Well, that was rude. It was above laundry.

" _Well, go on,"_ Gilli said, " _Tell me what happened. It's not like I have any news."_

" _Watched the entirety of the Purge, told it during the Trial, forgave Arthur for it anyways, nearly watched Gwen die._ " Oh, fie. Arthur was missing.

Gilli said something about how comfortable the bathtub suddenly was, but Merlin was largely distracted digging the half-penny out of his boot. Someday he was going to design a much better way to hold onto this.

When in his hands, he closed his eyes and felt the little pocket of magic he'd stored within the sigil stretching out towards the East. Ruadan had taken him, and Ruadan was from Essetir, so that made sense. He'd probably have to teleport. He reached for his magic.

Like fingernails scraping along skin rubbed raw, pain darkened the edges of his vision and nearly knocked him flat out.

In fact, he was blinking the spots away with his face in the floor when he became aware of Gilli cursing, again. "— _was that? Did you blackout? What in six sards is going on?"_

" _Emrys?"_ Another voice.

" _You better not have disappeared again. Do you have any idea how boring it is down here?"_

" _Emrys, are you alright? I'm starting to worry."_ Iseldir probably?

They were talking over each other in a headache inducing cacophony. He rolled onto his back, squinted, and very, very carefully looked through the veil at the magic around him. In flickering threads he saw the separate lines connecting to Gilli and to Iseldir, and he reached up and poked at them until they wound together before bothering him.

" _Merlin, I swear I will slither my way up there!"_

" _Oh, hello?"_

" _Hello? Fie, how did I mess this up? This one is supposed to be easy, sorry, hold on."_

" _Wait,"_ Merlin interrupted them both, " _I'm here. Gilli, meet Iseldir. Iseldir, Gilli."_

" _Hello Gilli, friend of Emrys. I'm Iseldir, of the Druids."_

" _Oh,"_ came Gilli's response, then a long pause. " _Well I'm Gilli. Of the grotto. Of the Gilded Grotto."_

" _So not what it's called,"_ Merlin said.

Iseldir relaxed slightly, it gave Merlin a feeling of a wide open space, a bustle of people, and a sort of restlessness. Iseldir focused again when Merlin prompted him, and answered, " _Our tribe is outside the walls, nearby the city. Everyone is discussing the Trial."_

Would he regret asking? " _And what do they think?"_

Iseldir, ever positive, " _Your retelling of the Purge was beautiful and haunting. I did not know you were a seer."_

" _I'm not. I asked a favor."_

Gilli jumped in. " _Merlin's got friends in low places._ "

He was going to put Gilli on a raw fish diet. " _I've got a favor to ask you too, Iseldir."_ He waited for Iseldir's dip of acquiescence, " _When I forgave Camelot, I released Arthur from any concession towards yourself, or our magic."_

Gilli yelped. " _You WHAT?!"_ Then continued on with a litany of how-could-you's. He and Iseldir tuned it out.

He felt Iseldir sigh and lean away, thinking. " _I did say that forgiveness may be the only way to stop the cycles of revenge."_

" _Ugh, fine,"_ Gilli muttered.

" _I accept your decision, Emrys, and I believe it was the right one. And I still believe Arthur will release the ban soon."_

" _I'm glad you do, at least."_ Merlin said. " _Because that's a hard future to see from my perspective."_

" _Why?"_ Iseldir asked quickly.

" _Did you know what Ruadan was planning?"_ Of course he didn't. Iseldir didn't plot against Camelot. " _Ruadan kidnapped Arthur and nearly killed Gwen. I used all of my magic to save Gwen, and now I'm helpless to save Arthur."_

Iseldir, without a doubt, had been shocked into silence. Iseldir's hope snapped away into some hidden place, and out of politeness, Merlin remained silent until Iseldir was ready to respond. In the meantime he put the half-penny back in his boot and stood up. He wanted to move those velvet curtains aside and get some air in here.

" _I suspected, but I never expected… you must find them, quickly."_

" _I don't think I can right now_ ," Merlin said from the window. " _I can tell where he is, but I can't get there without letting my magic heal."_

" _You will get there, Emrys."_ Iseldir's voice grew louder, and soon other voices came with the murmur of Iseldir's, leaden with power and ready. " _Here with us are the largest gathering of magic users in a decade. We will worry about the teleportation spell, you worry about saving our king!"_

* * *

Twilight lent a regal purple to the bleak firebrand of Morgana's clearing. Her dark hair swung in a coy braid over her shoulder, she wore a plain dress, and she'd signed lines of soot across her alabaster skin.

"What a surprise, Arthur," she cackled. "You never visit!"

Arthur whirled to meet his sibling's eye, but the recent teleportation kicked him in the gut.

She cooed as he gagged with nausea. "Honey helps."

Hand over his mouth, urgh. He mumbled, "And have you got bees hidden under your skirts?"

"Hmm," she thought, twirling. "Hornet's nests for most, but a select few get nectar."

 _Gag. All the gags._

She turned her focus on Ruadan, who had bided his time quietly nearby. "Emrys will be after his liege soon enough, Ruadan. Do you mind putting out a few flower arrangements? I'm just a bear when it comes to decorations."

Ruadan looked confused, so she made a shooing motion with her hand. He then slunk away, towards future revenge fantasies that Arthur hoped to live long enough to see. Either she was clearing the space for her attack, or she was plotting something that required absolute secrecy. "I don't want to fight you, Morgana."

"Of course you don't, you ninny. You'd die."

She'd always been this cocky on the pitch, too. She'd thought she could twirl circles around him during practice. "Excalibur would surprise you."

"Your little sword of the stone?" She eyed the blade, but did look wary. He made a show of tossing it between his hands. Swift enough, her wariness became anger. "He's done a lot for you."

He takes a few steps to the side, she tracks him. He needed to distract her. "What high horse are you on now?"

"Don't you feel bothered by it? Guilty? Even a teeny bit of hypocrisy?"

"About what exactly?"

Her tongue ran over her teeth slowly, eyes narrowed thoughtfully; he knew this expression, she was checking his face for lies. She found none, of course. "You don't know!"

She laughed in a sudden hysteria, then boggled and whirled away. Wherever her brain had gone, he had no intention of following it. Instead, he backed off a few steps. Ruadan had said she was trapped here by some spell. He wondered where the perimeter was.

When Morgana fell dramatically against a tree, he had to stop moving. "I suppose I should be grateful he told me first," she grimaced. "Maybe he thought he owed it to me?"

She muttered a few more things, but he couldn't make them out. He backed off further. He was nearly at the edge of the clearing now.

But then her head snapped up, features sharpening as she guessed his intentions.

He distracted her, saying the first thing that came to mind. "We could have worked together."

She snapped her fingers, and a warm heat grew at his back. He heard the crackle and smelt the smoke, he didn't need to turn to know it was fire. "I'm not done talking to you, Arthur. That's pretty rude, to try to abandon me here without saying goodbye."

He tried another tactic. "Why is your life so unlivable without magic? Everyone else I know has lived without it and are happy enough."

Her eyebrow twitched, and Morgana very deliberately leaned over, gathered a clump of soot, and threw it at him. "Arthur Pendragon, you ignorant little blonde fluff," she began promisingly, "I'd rather separate every grain of salt from the ocean than try to separate my magic from who I am!"

"But look at what it's done to you!" She had no friends, no allies! There was no one she could trust, and no one to support her— had she forgotten what that once meant to her? She had no love in her life, no beauty. No comfort, no family, no— what did she even value anymore?

"It's _you_ and _your world_ which has made me _this_!" She spat, "My magic would have made me a high priestess on an island of sisters; it would have made me a healer and a seer for kings. _Uther_ did this to me."

The boiling firelight pulsed in time with her angry breaths, casting eerie shadows. With no choice but to advance, he did.

He rolled his shoulders, the beginning of his warm-up routine. He knew she'd recognize the motions. "Attacking Camelot and taking the throne isn't going to give you that life _back_ , Morgana."

"It _absolutely_ could. With that gold I could rebuild the castle, and with new laws I could rejuvenate the Isle itself."

Closer, he approached. Challenged her. Twirled the sword across his body. "Is this really what you want? My throne so you can have an island?"

"It's not just an island," she huffed. "I've seen what it once meant, what it looked like before the fall. That's what I want back, Arthur; there was love, energy, and life. I want that."

She'd pursed her pale lips and fixed him with the narrowed glare she'd perfected at eight. That had been the glare that had gotten her clothes, rare bits of makeup, performing troupes, and all sorts of demanded favors from their father. Arthur knew it well. The first time she fixed it on him, he'd helped her dress as a boy and come to training practice. This many years later, it once again worked past his defenses. "I am the king. We could come to an agreement."

She studied him carefully, imperiously. This was a side of her he knew less, the cunning he'd been on the receiving end of only recently. She slid forward, gliding through the soot until she met his approach. "And I am the last High Priestess of the Old Religion. Let's negotiate, King Arthur."

* * *

Merlin stood at the window in the Solar and watched a spiral of gold tunneling before him. Iseldir and the other advanced magic-users in his clan were patching together the amorphous pieces of the teleportation spell before his eyes. It was beautiful, golden, and glittering, and there was a patch on his left that looked a bit wobbly.

Further on a series of circles replaced the usual polygonal pattern, and was that just a straight-up hole over there? Was someone just hoping that wouldn't kill him? All of this was nerve-wracking to say the least, but far be a complaint from him. He was about to be launched across Camelot without any work on his part, and he was going to get to Arthur before it was too late.

The warm honey of Iseldir's voice as he inspired the magics of those around him was a balm. For all the power Merlin had, in those smaller corners of his heart he didn't believe he had that leadership, nor ever would.

" _Ready, Emrys?"_

" _As I'll ever be."_

" _Take a deep breath and hold it. It helps."_

 _Uhhh, I've done this before,_ Merlin thought just as Iseldir plucked him like a bowstring and sent him zooming forward in a blur. Swoops, spirals, _urgh_ , coming out of nowhere… yeah, now he saw where all the puking was coming from. He owed Gwaine a medal.

Light, and then an abrupt end as Iseldir spat him out on a fallen tree. The log hit him right in the gut, and he lay on the ground and enjoyed the feeling of getting the wind knocked out of him. It was lovely, truly.

Through his self-pitying groans he heard a scuffle, and when he looked up, low and behold, he beheld Ruadan himself. Looked like the man was trying to hide or get away or something.

"I see you!" This was the man who _tried to kill me,_ and on top of that kidnapped Arthur and nearly killed Gwen. He wasn't getting a free pass. "If you run it will only be worse for you."

Of course his bluff didn't hit, and Ruadan started whisper-chanting as he ran. With not enough magic to follow if that was another teleportation spell, Merlin got to his feet and bolted forward. Air slapped at his face and there was something dusty that clogged his lungs. But his strides were longer, and he was younger. He caught up in time to tackle Ruadan about the waist.

In quick succession he pushed Ruadan onto his back and threw a fist at his nose. "I told you not to run!" He grabbed the man by his lapels and slammed him into the dirt. It was enough to open Ruadan's black cloak and reveal Arthur's scabbard belted to the man's waist. Merlin nearly growled. "What did you do with Arthur?"

Ruadan's grizzled face contorted with fury, and Merlin felt the sting of an elbow as it smacked against his ribs. Two hands on his sternum shoved him away, and he hurriedly rolled to his feet while blinking away the ache. Ruadan had scrambled into a crouch and hovered his hands in the air between them, already prepared to defend against the magical blast Merlin would have shoved at him in any other circumstance.

But there was no blast forthcoming; and it only took that deficit for Ruadan to realize that Merlin was running on fumes. Ruadan muttered a word and pushed, and around his hands crackled little bars of magic that snapped together, and in a blink expanded and expanded until it was a wall of magical force heading outwards. No time to dodge or defend, he'd be thrown into a tree or have to match the wall with another of his own, one that he could not create.

So he fell to his stomach and covered his head with his hands. In a blink the force hit like a gale, the pressure flattening the skin of his face and driving him backwards so twigs scraped along his belly.

But nearly a year ago he'd torn a permanent hole in the veil between his magic and Albion's, and through that gap he saw the sparking bars of Ruadan's magic surrounding him like faerie motes. A few drifted through the tear, sharp, electric, and blinding.

As Ruadan pushed they bounced through his soul, energetic, like they wanted out.

In time the roar settled, and he glanced up at Ruadan. "Don't—"

But another low wall formed before them, dense this time, and digging partway into the ground so that a small tidal wave of dirt moved with it.

The magic swarmed golden before him, filling his vision, and this time he had no choice. Rather than cower beneath his arms, he stretched them out, through the veil, into the void. This time it felt like a gale of flame, burning through his fingers and seizing him from the inside out. He felt the roiling, boiling mess of it and could not hide.

Then it was done, absorbed, and he was in the same place he'd started with his arms stretched out before him. A crackle of Ruadan's magic sparked along Merlin's thumb, but that was all that remained of the spell.

Merlin didn't know what all of that had looked like, but he'd use the wariness that froze Ruadan to his advantage. "You really think you can attack me and win? Knowing who I am? Knowing what I can do?"

Merlin unbent slowly, standing to his full height. Now he was a bigger target, but it was all part of the bluff. "I'm only going to ask nicely once more. What did you do with Arthur?"

Ruadan shook Arthur's belt and scabbard in the air. "Does this look like it's got a sword in it? Your king is fine."

He should have trusted Arthur more, of course he'd escaped on his own. It was just too bad he hadn't taken the scabbard with its trackable half-penny with him. "And which direction did he go?"

"I tell you, and you let me walk away."

"I have no respect for your word, so why would I give you mine?" After all the pain Ruadan caused he deserved a prison sentence, but Merlin didn't have the magic to drag him back to Camelot. And even more fortunately for Ruadan, Merlin had already decided not to kill him. "You're not going to die today, Ruadan, because you have a daughter you owe an apology to. And because it's Guinevere who should punish you. Now tell me where he is."

Ruadan relaxed slightly. He licked his lips, dry from nerves. "How did you find me?" Merlin tried to remain neutral, but Ruadan guessed anyway. "Something in this belt, isn't it? That explains why Arthur wanted it back." He threw it in the dirt between them. "Arthur is with the High Priestess in her clearing."

The druid bent his head and hurriedly finished the end of the teleportation chant. The air began to gust around them as the tunnel opened. "Go fetch, dog," he growled, then disappeared into it.

Merlin grit his teeth. If he ran across that gutless coward again, Sefa and Gwen wouldn't be getting their just desserts.

He picked the scabbard from the ground, dusting off the mixture of soil and soot. Then he looked to the Northwest, where the center of the forest and Morgana's prison lay. He'd wanted to believe she'd changed, just a little. Just enough to not want to kill them all anymore. But if Ruadan's attack had been her plot all along, then she'd run out of chances. This last plot would be the death of her.

* * *

Arthur began with a large circle between he and Morgana. They sat cross-legged on either side, and with a long stick, he drew a crude map of the countries of Albion with an X above Camelot's castle, and a "B" for the Isle of the Blessed— the High Priestess' old haunt.

Arthur began. "What do you offer in exchange for the Isle?"

"Your life and your throne isn't enough?" She arched a brow and smirked— never a good thing.

"Let's say I agree to that. You could never try for the throne ever again. You could never hurt my people ever again." He swiped an arm through the air, miming a cut. "No deals with foreign leaders to overthrow Camelot. None of it."

She spent long moments swaying back and forth as if she were thinking over the what-ifs. "The peasants one is going to be hard. What if they trespass on my land? And what if the kings come to me first. Where's my tribunal if I overhear about a plot and just don't feel like telling you about it?"

"You really wouldn't tell me?"

"Are we _allies_ now?" She said the word as if it were dirty.

Hardly. "Are you going to _torture_ peasants that cross your border?"

"I might, isn't it within my rights as ruler?"

Crazy witch, why was he even bothering negotiating with her? He was only delaying the inevitable battle between them, and if she had walls to defend, that was all the worse for him. She was close, within reach of Excalibur. If he could push away his memory of her, he could end this right now.

The assent came out of her mouth in a heated rush, "No torture." Her eyes never left his face. "I don't care about your peasants. I'd turn them away if I didn't want them."

He'd need a way to make sure she didn't go back on her word. A spy, perhaps? Emrys might be willing to pass along information. "I'm going to hold you to that. And as long as you don't actively work against me or Camelot…" What had he missed? Was there a loophole for her to exploit? "... then I think we have an agreement."

"Deal?" She asked, expression dancing. "Deal! I want a formal deed in Geoffrey's hand, and a signature from yours."

And there would be plenty of detail explaining what, on her part, would break the deed. "Let's shake."

He held out a hand, a gesture he's only offered to a select few. Her handshake was a quick grip and a giggle before she flopped onto her back, beaming.

It was too easy to please her. He didn't like it.

Morgana's voice lofted above them in wispy tuffets. "My land, my rules, right?"

He glared. Where was she going with this?

She sat up sharply, pointing a pale finger at him. "If it's my land, I'm going to free magic, completely. There will be so many spells zinging around that Uther will roll in his grave."

He half rolled his eyes. He wasn't _that_ oblivious. Was he happy about it? No. Was it a means to an end? Yes. He couldn't ignore the riot that had nearly overtaken his throne room, proving his kingdom was boiling beneath the surface— unless he did something, that would all come to a froth soon enough.

"Obviously, Morgana," he rested his arms on his knees and leaned forward. "I'm not an idiot."

"Could be argued," she chirped.

He narrowed his eyes, commanding. "You can't do the sort of spells that hurt people. No more undead armies."

"It's called dark magic, Arthur dearest."

He barreled on. "And it doesn't leave your Isle. Magic is still illegal in Camelot."

"So, for example, I can't charm a sword to be everlastingly sharp?"

He glared. She rolled her eyes.

"Fine. _I'll be good_ , and in exchange magic…" she stuttered on the words. Then she laughed openly, the glee lightening everything about her. "I can't believe it! Magic free on the Isle and Arthur Pendragon letting me do it. Have fun explaining that one to your allies."

Yeah, sounded like a blast. And before his allies he'd have to explain it to the Council.

She must have seen the look on his face, "Don't ask me to cross-stitch them anything."

All he could imagine were napkins depicting her many treacheries. He shook his head, no, he certainly wouldn't be asking her to cross-stitch them anything. In fact, any communication with her would be sour. "Our agreement doesn't nullify what you've done, Morgana. Albion won't welcome you, because you don't deserve to be welcomed."

"I'm not looking for Albion's help."

"Your pride isn't as important as your people!" he shouted, slamming a hand into the middle of their map. If she was going to essentially rule that Isle, she'd need to change. "You need to face your mistakes. You owe a penance to the people in this land."

"A penance, hm?" Her lip curled. "And I suppose this," she gestured at the sooty map, "is your penance?"

The Trial had been meant to determine what he owed. Maybe this meeting with Morgana was fate working in mysterious ways. He shrugged, exasperated.

"And what would you have me do," she always enunciated her sarcasm when she was irritated, "to earn everyone's _forgiveness_?"

"I don't know," he grit, and he really didn't. "You'll have to be humble enough to ask them."

She looked off into the forest, glaring at the twilight. "There are some people who should earn _my_ forgiveness. Gaius, the liar, for one. And Merlin..."

It was up to her if she wanted to be bitter all her life; he couldn't fix that. And he wasn't going to make a single excuse for her—

—Then Morgana's eyes focused and her expression hardened. There was a faint crashing in the trees.

"Well, would you look at that," she said roughly. "Speak his name and he shall appear."

* * *

Evening's cool breath whispered warnings along the sweat of Merlin's spine.

 _You're running out of time_ , it said. _Arthur may already be dying._

He had to move faster, had to take running leaps over burned out husks and trace the now destroyed path from memory. Soot poofed with every footfall and clung to the leather of his boots. It smeared along his clothes and into his rat's nest of hair from his fight with Ruadan. By the time he skidded into Morgana's clearing, he was a flushed, panting, gangly riot of chaos.

Arthur was cross-legged on the ground, holding a long stick. Excalibur lay across his knees, and his confused gaze snapped from Merlin's face to the scabbard Merlin held clutched in his hands. Thank the Fates, _Arthur was well._

But then Morgana burst into Merlin's line of sight, stomping towards him like a woman scorned. She pulled back, he dropped the scabbard, and she swung an arm forward, nails bared. "You monstrous, egotistical, untrustworthy, verminous little peasant." She swiped again. "Manipulative, hypocritical liar!"

It was always about her, wasn't it? She was always the victim. "It's like looking into a mirror."

She shrieked and leapt. Surprising she wasn't blasting fireballs, but he counted himself lucky. The little bit of magic he'd stolen couldn't block that.

He caught one of her wrists just as her fingers hooked into the hollow of his ear. She yanked painfully as she thrashed, but he held tight, twisting her arm to the side. "Did you plan all of this with Ruadan?"

"Oh, is it truth time?" She mocked, twisting her head one way as her claws went another. Just barely he caught her elbow before she gouged out his eyes. _How was she this slippery? Could barely keep her… bloody twisting all over the place—_

She tried spitting. "How dare you accuse _me_? Condemn _me?_ My own poisoner!"

His biceps burned as she surged forward, and he barely avoided being kneed in the balls. "Get over yourself," he growled. She struck with her left leg, he knocked it aside, and then she nailed him in the thigh— hurt like— _there_! Got her foot underneath his. _Hah._ "You know the mistakes you made. Now answer me."

She leaned forward as far as he'd let her, her lips curling to show her canines. He wouldn't put it past her to go for his jugular. "Betrayer," she hissed. "Betrayed me then, betrayed me now."

"At the time I did blame myself," he said, "but that ends here. This time, if you did this, you will not get another chance."

"This time? What makes burning down a forest my worst sin of all? What makes you my judge? All I did _this time_ — " Her body went rigid and she slammed fists downward. Her elbow he pushed higher into the air, but the other fist came down on his shoulder hard enough to bruise. She breathed harshly through her gritted teeth, vibrating with anger, but this close, and this spent, her wild eyes could not hide her honest pain.

"What did you do this time?"

Her iris glimmered with gold, and the string of her thoughts pushed into his. On that whisper of magic she said, " _I did what I told myself I'd never do again… I trusted you."_

Her eyes closed, and she muttered, "Now let me go."

* * *

Arthur was on his feet after Morgana's first strike. His hand spanned Excalibur's hilt, and the familiar balance leant him confidence.

He needed it, especially in the face of… these two. Whatever these two were doing. Whatever their absolutely inconsistent, inexplicable, absolutely _insane_ argument was….

Actually it did make sense. It made sense if he threw away the rest of the trust he had in Merlin. Merlin, who he'd already suspected of helping Emrys, had apparently gone so far building a rapport with Camelot's greatest enemy. They had _communicated_ , and _Merlin hadn't told him._

Worst of all— worse in a way that made his stomach flip in discomfort— Morgana wasn't trying to kill him. She'd proved a sickening affinity for violence, and she brought none of it to bear. In fact, if he'd been further away, he may have mistaken their singular rage for something far less hostile.

Merlin released his grip, and Morgana swirled around, stomping away from them both. Was she—? It couldn't be, he'd barely seen it. But he'd grown up with her; he knew the way she'd scrunch her nose and hide her tears. Unless this was all a grand act, a plot she'd made while training some Merlin lookalike….

But no, of course not. No one could imitate the grim line of Merlin's mouth, nor that inexplicable wisdom in his eyes. This was the man he'd grown to call a friend, and he needed to stop making far-reaching excuses for him.

Arthur nudged Excalibur towards Merlin. "How long have you been talking to Morgana?"

Merlin's expression shuttered, and in his usual fashion, Merlin kept the answer to himself.

From the side came Morgana's snark, "Will you tell him, or shall I?"

"I'll tell him," Merlin snapped at her, then looked him squarely in the eye. "This is only a small piece of the entire story. I want to tell you the whole thing, but not here, not now."

Of course. Just like last night, when he'd caught him working with Emrys to save that creature from the dungeon and got a _I'll tell you later, Arthur._ And hadn't it been Merlin who'd recommended 'Dragoon' to heal his father? They'd had an alliance behind his back for years _and_ _years,_ "You keep saying _you're going to tell me, you're going to tell me,_ but you never do!"

"A few months," Morgana drawled. "Mid-winter. Happy?"

 _How?_ Merlin had been in Camelot every day, with him. Even if he'd been stealing horses at night, that timeline was impossible. "Did Emrys bring you here? What were you _thinking_? Why didn't you just tell me, you know how dangerous she is!"

Morgana tipped her head back and howled with laughter. Merlin grimaced. "I had things under control."

" _You call this under control?_ "

"Oh just tell him, Merlin. I want to see the look on his face."

Merlin's face was turning red, and he drug his shaking hands through his hair. "Not right now. We should be in Camelot. You can call the Round Table and we can talk everything out."

Arthur balked, and he could feel his own face growing hot with anger. "What is it, your bloody life story?"

Merlin began kneading at his scalp, the irritation growing.

"It doesn't require many words," Morgana smirked. "None, technically."

"Oh really?" He roared, then sliced his sword through the air. "Then someone say it!"

"Fine!" Merlin spread his arms wide. "I'm Emrys!"

* * *

No.

 _An old woman flashes away from the catwalk and appears on the ground of the throne room. He watches her skin slough away, tighten and lengthen until she is a man, Emrys._

Old bodies, blue eyes. Changing faces.

 _Merlin bursts through the doors, Uther halfway through a sentence. He screams that he's the sorcerer, he's the one that planted the poultice, not Gwen._

But Merlin often said crazy things to protect them.

 _A bolt of lightning cracks across the cloudless sky, and Arthur watches the glow light an old man before the crowd. In the midst of a riot, the man is a force of nature._

 _Merlin tells him there's a hermit in the forest, someone who could save his father. When the hermit fails, he looks up with despair. In that moment Emrys is not sorry to have killed Uther, he's sorry to have disappointed Arthur._

His chest constricted, and his breath came in short, hollow bursts.

No.

"You are not a sorcerer. I would know. Merlin, _I would know_."

Merlin just shook his head, and in his palm sparked licks of flame. They danced and flickered, became a bat's wing, no— a dragon's. A small dragon flying slowly, smoothly, and _the last five years of my life have been a lie._

* * *

The dappled shade of the old forest ripples over Aithusa's white skin, easily burned, and the breeze that comes with the orange light curls warm under the membrane of her wings. It buoys her as she glides.

She is part of the push and pull of the land, but a predator all the same. Birds quiet and rodents shoot for cover, though they need not fear. She is on a different hunt.

There is a skein of magic passing through her, one of a hundred fateful branches that she could follow. But this is the one she wants, even if it's spindly and fragile. The other, where her father banishes her to the East, and her mother dies at Kilgharrah's sword, is still wrapped around her once broken legs, dragging her down.

Once broken, though. Her dragonlord bound her to Kilgharrah _until she was healed,_ and today she is healed. She is free, finally. Free to chase the fate she's been yearning for since her birth.

Maybe evil still wins if she lands now, if she succumbs to the status quo. Last year it would have been easy to put her head down, and allow Morgana to die. It would have saved them both a lot of pain. But Emrys didn't hatch her to wait and watch, or to hope and guide. He gave her life to bring the dawn, and she raced for it now.

* * *

And so it is, that moments after Merlin lights an ephemeral dragon in his palm, a brilliant white dragon coasts above their heads.

As it circles, Arthur's head spins. Dragon's weren't extinct, this was a baby, were there whole nests he didn't know of? Had Merlin called it here with that spell? _What else is he hiding from me?_

The dragon lands in their midst, and Morgana takes a lurching step towards it, then stills, careful. Her usual snark falls flat. "When I have my Isle, can Merlin come over to play?"

Merlin frowns at the dragon, puzzled. He says nothing. Arthur starts to think the dragon is a coincidence. Morgana obviously wants her hands on it, what for?

In the meantime Morgana creeps closer. "Don't hurt yourself thinking, Arthur. Even I didn't figure Merlin out until last night."

Arthur nearly answers, but Merlin snaps first, "And sometime between then and this afternoon you told Ruadan. I doubt he suddenly decided to kill the king's manservant on a whim."

"I'm not privy to Ruadan's _whims_ , Merlin."

" _And?_ "

"And I certainly didn't tell him to kill you. I should have." She smirked, "He did scry me, and I may have mentioned you moonlight as Emrys, but how was I supposed to know what he was going to do with that information?"

Arthur's eyes bounced between the two of them. Small mercies, at least they weren't allies in any way. He didn't think he could have stomached it if they were.

"You cursed the cloak he attacked us with. I think you knew exactly what he was going to do."

"Maybe I did curse a cloak, but it was months ago." She shrugged. "I told him to use it on my enemies. I suppose he intuited that was you." A grin, "He always was a sharp one, that Ruadan."

 _Morgana was behind the kidnapping? She'd been working with Ruadan?_ Arthur glowered, _Of course. How could I have expected any less of her._ She'd tricked him so succinctly, acted like she'd changed her ways and played him for a fool. They both had. "Quiet!" Excalibur vibrated in his hands, suddenly its point at her throat. "You _just_ swore you were going to stop these attacks. I can't believe I trusted you."

"That was after—" She strangled, "I didn't plan this. I didn't ask for you to come here." She was panicking. "I didn't ask Ruadan to do anything. I only answered his question about _him!"_

Her words came out quickly, nearly desperate. "Do you remember when the sleeping spell hit Camelot? Remember? I barely knew who I was and Merlin was already ready to poison me. He laced water with hemlock and tricked me into drinking it!"

"Oh come off of it, Morgana!" Merlin yelled. "You were the host of the spell, and you lied about it! You were already against us!"

"I was not! _I was not_." She snarled.

"Sure," Merlin sarcastically drawled. "And when you returned with Morgause a year later, you _weren't_ out to kill everyone in Camelot."

They'd lost track of him again, arguing over the dragon's head, and ignorant as he dropped his stance. The dragon also stayed silent, and inexplicably, Arthur felt its kinship. It also could not fathom them. There was a world of history between the two he'd never suspected. How long had they shared this secret struggle? Since the sleeping spell, that first year Merlin had arrived? Long before that they'd worked together to free the Druid boy, Mordred. Since then, even?

"I returned for Uther's throne." Morgana said, "I was there to free magic."

"You were out on some personal revenge mission." Merlin refuted with obvious distaste. "You were putting soul-sapping bracelets on Arthur and trying to stab Uther in the middle of the night."

"Tried and failed because..." she paused. "You... were there. You're why I fell down the stairs and nearly died."

"Poor victimized Morgana, unable to go on a murdering spree because I flared a sconce."

"Bastard."

"Selfish brat."

She stalked forward, claws at the ready, and Merlin mirrored her. They circled the dragon as they barked at each other, and Arthur felt the hole where Merlin's friendship had once gone grow wider and deeper. He'd never known him at all.

"Oh I should be thankful for all you've done for me then?" She threw her hands up with a snarl. "Well thank you for knocking me down the stairs and then nursing me back to health. It was my sickbed where I heard Uther had sired me."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "And thank you for subsequently trying to burn me alive."

"No, actually," she jabbed again, "thank you so very much for sending me to the Druids through _a pit of serkets_."

Merlin tilted his head, as if to say _Really?_ "Should I thank you for leaving me to die the exact same way?"

"You took my magic and left _me_ to die! You're the reason why the Sarrum could capture me in the first place!"

"You tortured Gaius and all of my friends."

"And you condemned my sister to a slow painful death!"

" _You're welcome."_

Arthur feels the breath leave his body, he can't shout a warning fast enough.

Morgana darkens in the purple twilight, and her thin control snaps, expression shattering, the monster in her bursting out. Merlin ducks, rolls, twists. Sprints forward with eyes lighting an unnatural gold.

Arthur dives, Excalibur thrust forward, no plan but he's moving, and the dragon's eyes alight on him. They are large and knowing, placid in the chaos. It's like it's trying to tell him something.

Then the dragon opens wide its wings and looses a white light, blinding, encompassing, and pure.

It seeps through his skin to warm his bones. It goes through him, underneath him, buoys him. The concept of time flies away, and he's floating in a river of white light smooth enough to sleep in.

He doesn't, though. "Arthur! Are you alright?" Merlin shakes him awake, and with wakefulness returns the whole sordid story.

No, no he wasn't alright.

He twisted away from Merlin. "Leave me alone."

Unsurprised, but wounded. "Arthur?"

He looked around. Morgana and the dragon were gone. No bodies, no blood. Had the dragon known her? Maybe. Probably. But it hardly mattered since he knew where to find them. Morgana would go to the Isle.

He dug Excalibur out of the dirt next to him, and stalked over to where Merlin had dropped his belt and scabbard. Explicitly he did not look to Merlin, who stood stock still in his periphery. Maybe he'd take the hint for once and leave. Merlin could go traipse the Isle with Morgana for all he cared.

Arthur turned West and did not look back. For hours he pounded towards Camelot, face hot, his hands shaking. Gwen once said his greatest strength was his heart, and that it was also his greatest weakness. She was right; he could not bear betrayal.

He walked through evening, and then into the dark. He did not know if Merlin followed, but he would not check. He wouldn't be the first to break.

So it was sudden, Merlin's long fingers tugging sharply at his arm, and there was no moment to be furious or refuse. Only a lurch and he was falling forward into the empty void, unable to breathe, powerless.

Then they were in the Solar, stumbling. Merlin's hands were on his shoulders, trying to steady him.

 _No!_ He tore away, stumbling back.

Through willpower he locked his knees and found the ability to stand square. Before him, Merlin waited, framed in soot. He wore plain clothes and a plain expression, yet the wealth of the room behind him paled in comparison. He was straight-backed, confident, and powerful.

Finally, Arthur had the truth.

"I don't even know you. Liar I could forgive, but sorcerer? Emrys?" His voice broke. Tightening his grip on Excalibur he steeled himself. He'd start swinging before Merlin ever saw his tears. "Just… for once do what I tell you to do."

"Arthur," Merlin said quietly.

He jabbed at the door.

" _Get out of my sight."_

* * *

 _High sung by Young Rising Sons_

* * *

 **Footnotes:**

(1) In the legends, Morgana sends Arthur & Gwen a "rich mantle cloak" as an offering of peace. When Morgana's messenger is forced to put the cloak on, it burns her to cinders.  
(2) Sefa is Ruadan's daughter and Ruadan was a leader of a Druid tribe from out East (P2.7: The Audacity of Hope). They spent some time with Morgana before leaving to join Iseldir (P2.8-2.11). The death of Ruadan's wife / Sefa's mother (P2.17 House of Cards).  
(3) Gilli from canon (S3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow"). Merlin helps him save a girlfriend from the Sarrum's castle (P1.24 Two Can Keep a Secret), then saves him from the Sarrum's cage once he finds out Gilli has somehow transformed and stuck himself in a merman / merrow / ceasg body.  
(4) Sard = an old version of "fuck". "Six sards" is my version of "seven hells".  
(5) In the chapter Mort Artu (Death of Arthur), Morgan vanishes for a long time and stops troubling Arthur, who assumes her to be dead. One day, he wanders into Morgan's remote castle while on a hunting trip, and they instantly reconcile with each other. Morgan welcomes him warmly and the king is overjoyed of their reunion and allows her to return to Camelot, but she refuses and declares her plan to move to the Isle of Avalon to live there with other sorceresses.  
(6) Merlin bounds Aithusa to Kilgharrah, "Until you are healed?" (P2.2). She is fully healed now, and was able to use her freedom to "escape" with Morgana.  
(7) Some of Arthur's dialog is taken from S5.13: "The Diamond of the Day (Part 2)."

 **Author's Requiem:**

One day soon Merlin will be throwing open curtains and Arthur will be throwing goblets, just the way we all like it. But first I want to dive into each of the many emotions and realizations we see between Arthur and Merlin on the canon trip to the lake of Avalon. I'm so excited!

I intentionally left out Merlin's Diamond of the Day dialog, "It was all for you." It isn't all just for Arthur anymore. And this should really be about, will Arthur accept him for who he is or not.

End of Part 2, wow! Finally! Thank you everyone for sticking with me, and for still watching Merlin and loving it, and for being such a supportive, wonderful community! Screw those fogies who told us not to trust people on the internet, I love you all very much, and I feel the love from here! Thank you so much for reading!

Big thanks to Jewelsmg and dmarie1184 for being great friends and beta-reading this chapter, and to Linorien for going above and beyond as an alpha & beta reader. Linorien has been there when I needed a brainstorm, to do character studies with me, to read and offer tips when this chapter was half done… and of course, being a constant inspiration in helping me get this one done! Thank you all so much!

 **Req's Recs:**

 _Writing Excuses_ podcast. Dmarie1184 recommended this podcast awhile back, and I'm still listening weekly. Brandon Sanderson and other great writers give out amazing tips, the most recent that has stuck with me being: build characters by asking, what sort of questions would they ask their fellow cast members?

Dmarie1184 recommends _The Chronicles of Amber_. A wealth of books to dive into, crazy world building, and even a whole cycle following a character named Merlin— a half demon computer scientist. " _The Chronicles of Amber_ is Zelazny's finest fantasy, a grand imaginative vision of alternate worlds, magic, swordplay, and murderous rivalries."

 _Linorien's "TV Magic",_ because it's wonderfully droll, and Linorien continues to surprise me with original ideas. If you want a fresh look at Merlin in modern day, take a look at this fic. Yes, there is amazing magic, yes there are pranks, and yes there is a very cool reveal. " _Because how could Merlin resist working on a show called 'Merlin'? In which Merlin decided to become the head of practical effects and may or may not be totally cheating by using his magic."_

Jewelsmg recommends the YouTube hit _Olan Rogers_. I recommend starting with the _Ghost in the Stalls_ story. 5:43 of laughing till you cry. It's the shortest amount of time I've ever needed to fall in love. He's a wonderfully positive, funny, friendly, inspiring man with absolutely hysterical story-telling abilities! And he's got a new show out on TBS called Final Space!


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